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OR, 



A WINTERS GLEANING. 



IN A POEM. 



By S. J. L. L(,.,vtv,cc 




BOSTON : 

PUBLISHED BY B. B. RUSSELL, 55 CORNHILL. 

1871. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

By B. B. RUSSELL, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Rand, A very, &* Fr^e, Printers, Boston, 



DEDICATION. 



To some few of my friends to memory dear 
This work I offer, be they far or near ; 
And if, in tracing these pages o'er, 
They're reminded of days no more, 
Of the pleasant hours we five have shared, 
Then I am repaid for each line prepared. 
Trusting to the loving-kindness of all, 
I on your charity truly must call 
To pardon the errors that uppermost lie : 
They'll grieve, I know, the critical eye. 
But not for the critic, be he good or wise. 
Have I my heart-fancies bidden to rise. 
But for those who lightened my lonely heart 
When from home and loved ones doomed to part ; 
Who by their tenderness sought to while 
The tedious hours with song and with smile, 
Nor sought in vain. Hot tears fall fast 
As I think of the four, loved till the last ; 
And though mile upon mile our persons divide. 
Our souls, united, walk closely beside. 
Dear friends of my heart, though we ne'er meet more 
Until we've crossed to the shining shore, 
May the past, with its memories kind and sweet, 
With its halo of love, rest at your feet. 
Where I, with humble reverence, lay 
The book that " Hulda " has written to-day ! 



April 13, 1873 



OOI^TEN'TS. 

CHAPTER I. PAGE 
The Wedbing 7 

CHAPTER II. 
Sakah's Childhood 11 

CHAPTER III. 
The Vow 15 

CHAPTER IV. 
The Hospital 20 

CHAPTER V. 
The Dying Soldier 24 

CHAPTER VI. 
The Mission 29 

CHAPTER VII. 
The Repledged 34 

CHAPTER VIII. 
Sarah Horton 38 

CHAPTER IX. 
Cornie's Story 41 

CHAPTER X. 
The Two Friends 46 



CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER Xr. 



The Departure 



52 



CHAPTER Xn. 



ISTew Ties 



CHAPTER Xni. 



GrliENCORA MAYO'S STORY 



62 



Recreation 



Visions 



Rewarded 



CHAPTER XIV. 



CHAPTER XV. 



CHAPTER XVI. 



At Last 



CHAPTER XVII. 



83 



Fate 



CHAPTER XVUl. 



Stella Graham 



CHAPTER XIX. 



95 



Changes 



CON( 



CHAPTER XX. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



103 



111 



LONSOLATION. 



CHAPTER I. 



THE WEDDING. 

ALL the long clay the pure and fleecy snow 
Had been softly falling down in flumes 
White ; while old Mount Grace was covered o'er 
From base to crown with her spotless robe. 
All the little brooks that in summer-time 
Babbled to the passer-by so gayly 
And so free were hushed then and still ;. 
For 'twas mid-winter, and in her chill embrace 
All Nature rocked'herself to sleep. 

Some two miles out from the village street 

Of dear old Warwick, — for there my stories lies 

In its beginning, — there stood, and yet doth stand. 

The pleasant farm-house of John Stevens, 

A well-to-do farmer, kind and jolly, 

Who loved to crack his joke with a neighbor, 

And who loved his wife and his children well ; 

But some there* were who said, perhaps with truth, 



8 CONSOLATION. 

His idol and his pet was not his wife, 
Nor either of his children ten, but his 
Gray mare. 

Within the house, the busy housewife, 
On many cares intent, sped back and forth 
With a smiling face, but with weary feet ; 
For, when the evening came, Vira, her eldest. 
The daughter of her youth, would leave her home 
To share with him she'd chosen their future. 
Be it weal or woe. Aunt Eunice and Thankful, 
John's maiden sisters, were making wreaths 
With which to deck the large old-fashioned room, 
By courtesy called parlor ; though we of modern times 
Would smile to have so plain and barren room 
Thus denominated. 

The dark yet polished floor was carpetless, 
Save here and there a home-made rug. 

The ample fireplace, from whence pleasant warmth 
Permeated all the room, reflected back 
The brightening glow of the great fire-dogs. 
Polished so highly, they seemed like mirrors. 

In the far-off corner stood the guest-bed. 
With its silken curtains flowing loosely 
From the wainscoted ceiling to the floor ; 
A wooden settee, covered with gorgeous patch. 
Graced another corner ; while close beside 
Stood the three-legged light-stand, with the Bible, 
A century old, lying on it year by year. 

A large old-fashioned bureau with brass handles 
Also pressed against the wall ; above it 
Hung the "family record," wrought by Vira 
When only eleven : its companion-piece 
Represented a milkmaid and green cows. 



THE WEDDING. S 

Blue grass, and yellow skies, purple roses, 
And all the et cceteras that form a gay picture. 

The one rocking-chair, and seat of honor. 
Stood in the middle of the floor : 
In the corner next the fire stood the clock. 
Tall and shining in its oaken dress ; 
And its long brass pendulum kept swinging 
The same old tune, — " Never, forever, 

Never more ! " 
With the evenincr came the weddIno;-o;uests, 
Who, despite the falling snow and threatened drifts, 
Were in their gayest humor : while above. 
In the girls'-room, a merry group displayed 
Their love and pretty taste as they arrayed 
The bride in her soft gray silk, trimmed with lace ; 
While she, trembling with mingled joy and fear, 
Repaid their teasing raillery of wit 
With pleased yet silent smiles. 

Upon the stair falls now a manly tread ; 
And '' May I come ? " is knocked upon the door. 
" Oh, yes ! " the laughing damsels cry; and then 
Upon the threshold of the door stands James, 
The bridegroom, so young, so fair and manly, 
Who, turning to his bride-elect, with arms 
Outstretched, holds her in a close embrace. 
Pressing with his lips her lofty brow. 
He murmured low, " May God ne'er smile on me 
If I henceforth keep not the vows which I 
To-night do take upon myself! " — " We're waiting ! " 
Called forth the youngest brother from below : 
So the bridal party passed down the stairs, 
And quietly arranged themselves in the centre 
Of the room, before the chair of state, in which 



10 CONSOLATION. 

Good Parson Jones had been resting an hour 
Or more, cracking a joke or two with zest 
Among the merry guests assembled there. 

A few brief words, an earnest prayer, and then 
Vira Stevens was no more. A husband 
Now claimed full allegiance from her heart ; 
And, though the tears filled her eyes when she saw 
Her mother's orbs o'erflowing with tender love, 
She quickly drove them back, and gazed in pride 
Upon her love and master, James Horton, 
To her seeming the very prince of men ; 
''And all went merry as a marriage-bell." 

The storm-clouds, which all ^aj 
Had disgorged their fleecy contents, now broke, 
Drifting from each other far and wide apart, 
Letting in 'twixt their rifts the bright-eyed stars ; 
While, slowly climbing overhead, the moon. 
Night's fair and radiant queen, the heavens 
Seemed to light into a brilliance most fair. 
At last, wdien ten o'clock had slowly chimed 
The hour, the guests, including bride and groom, 
Were making their adieus ; w^hile Aunt Eunice 
With hearty good will threw after the bridal pair 
An old slipper, — " for good luck," she said. 
The happy twain, thus escorted by friends. 
Soon reached their own snug home; and therein paa ce 
And the bliss of wedded life we leave them. 



CHAPTER II. 
Sarah's childhood. 

FIVE years of mingled joy and pain have passed 
Since Vira left the dear parental roof 
Of her childhood's home. Now a little habe 
Has come to bless her with its infant smiles ; 
A little daughter, which she has christened 
Sarah, — to her name ever dear, since 'twas 
Her mother's. The father his disappointment 
Could scarce conceal because his daughter dear 
Was not a son ; for on that ideal 
He had rested his fondest hopes for years. 

Alas ! poor Vira had much need of comfort, 
Since she was wedded scarce a year e'er she 
Discovered she had indeed a rival, 
And one much to be feared ; since passion hot 
And fierce assailed her with this demon wild. 
Who often seemed to tear at the very strings 
Of her heart. Oh the agony of soul 
She felt when first she knew that James, 
Her idol and her liege lord, was subject 
To the demon drink ! Prayers and tears alike 
Seemed powerless to stem his downward walk 
Into that abyss of shame, — a drunkard's grave. 

And so the weary years rolled on, 

Till fifteen summer- suns had cast their brightness 

Over Sarah's face ; when, one wild autumnal night. 



12 CONSOLATION. 

James Horton, the husband and father, 
Was from a drunken frolic brouMit home dead. 
The shock to poor Vira's nerves was fearful, 
Quite unnerving her for all life's sterner tasks : 
Thus a double burden fell on Sarah, 
AVho bravely struggled with her adverse fate, 
And by her kind solicitude and care 
Smoothed from her mother's path each bitter thorn. 

But Vh-a's life hung by a brittle thread ; 
And, after many a long and serious talk 
With the family physician, she one night 
Called her daughter to her side, praying 
That she might bear the burden given her 
For some wise purpose from the Father's hand. 
Resting her white and slender hand wi'h love 
Upon her daughter's brow, she thus began : 
" For fifteen years, my Sarah, you have been 
To me the one bright centre of my heart ; 
The one for whom I've wrought and toiled 
With purpose strong and high : many a time 
Have you stood betwixt me and harm, when he. 
Your father, knew not what mad acts he wrought. 

" On one sad night, when he with fury wild 
Approached me with a hatchet keen, 
I held you up before his face, and cried, 
^ O James ! see your little daughter's face ; 
You will not, surely, harm your child ? ' 
' No,' said he ; ' the child is safe : but I wish 
In darkest Hades was its mother.' 
My Sarah, can you guess the bitter grief 
That filled your mother's heart in those sad days ? 
And yet it was not always so. At first. 
Your father was as kind and good a man 



SAEAH'S CHILDHOOD. 13 

As you would often see : but for a friend 

He bound himself for all that he was worth, 

And more ; and, through falsehood vile, this friend 

Defrauded him of ail he had. 

And then his courage, and his faith in man, 

Vanished like the mists of mornino; : and so, 

To banish his discomfiture, he took to drink ; 

And, seething his brain with the vile poison. 

He was not accountable for his deeds. 

" He was my husband, the father of my child : 
And so, despite the urgent wish of all 
My friends, I staid with him until the last ; 
Often going supperless to bed. 
And sometimes shivering with cold. And you 
Would put your precious arms about my neck, 
Pressing with your own my tear-wet cheek, 
And whisper, ' Don't cry, mamma ! don't you cry ! ' 
Thus have you been my solace and my hope. 

" For many years I've shared your daily presence ; 
But now it seemeth best that we should part. 
Your education is indifferent; and I wish 
To place you for two years in Madam R.'s 
Graduating-school for young ladies ; 
Because, my child," — and now did Vira's voice 
Grow low and tender, — "I deem that it is best 
You should know that Dr. Walton and others 
Think you may at any hour become 
An orphan child indeed. My heart, they say. 
Is much diseased ; "and I must be prepared 
To bid farewell to life most suddenly. 

" Could I but feel assured that you were well, 
And happily provided for, I'd be 
Content to submit to the Father's will ; 
But love for you ofttimes makes me rebel. 



14 CONSOLATIOiT. 

" If the wealth that once was ours 
Could dower you with a competency, 
'Twould be so much for you ; but now, alone 
And poor, a harder path your feet must tread. 
*Tis now Thanksgiving week ; and, when shall come 
The Christmas holidays, we two must learn 
To live apart." 

" mamma ! if what you tell me is true, 
I cannot leave you here and alone : 
No comfort could I take, thouo-h much I'd like 
To garner knowledge, for 'tis the key of power. 
No, mamma : let me stay with you to cheer 
Your last remaining days with deeds of love.'' 

" Not so, dear child," Vira quick replied. 
" I shall not be alone ; for your grandpa 
Stevens is urging me to come and dwell 
Once more beneath the dear, parental roof. 
Besides, necessity almost compels me to : 
Since all we have will barely pay your board 
And tuition for the terms I've set for you ; 
And, as this is all I can to you bequeath. 
An education you must have. 

" Yesterday I spoke to Melinda Jones, 
Good old Parson Jones's youngest daughter. 
To come and cut and make for you 
Whate'er is needful for your coming use : 
We have so much to do, we cannot waste 
Our time in tears. And now, my darling girl, 
Kiss me good-night ; and remember, dear. 
You ever have your mother's love and blessing." 



CHAPTER III. 



THE VOW. 



AMID the mountains of the Verd-mont State, 
NestHng Hke the tiny violet from sight, 
Lies the pretty town of W. 
In the large two-story house, a Httle back 
From the main street, a young wife and mother 
Is battHng for her hfe. 
Slowly she turns her death-filmed eyes 
Upon each tearful face ; then beckoning 
To one sister dearer than the rest, whose hand 
She clasped with dying strength, she wildly cried, 
" Glencora, do you love me ? Then listen ; 
And, if you'd have me die in peace, you'll grant 
This my last request. — Charles, come hither too : 
Now take Glencora's hand in yours, and promise 
Both of you, when I've been dead a year, 
That you will marry : so this darling boy 
May have a mother, who will love him 
For his dead mother's sake." 

The two, thus strangely and solemnly addressed, 
Gazed with awe into each other's face ; 
Neither feeling much inclined to speak. 
^' Speak, I do implore ! " the dying woman cried : 
" My moments fast are ebbing out, and you 
Will not ease their pain ! Glencora, oh, say 
That you will be a mother to my child ! " 

Then did this sister', nobly renouncing 



16 CONSOLATION. 

Self and selfish feelings, make the vow 

That henceforth shattered her own bright hopes ; 

For well she knew another held the place 

A husband alone should ever claim. 

Solon Gordon was a clergyman of the 
Episcopalian order, and in the town 
Of W. had lived some two years or more. 
Tall and commanding in stature, he walked 
A very prince 'mong men. His broad, full brow 
Showed the intellect hidden there ; 
His eyes, so soft and dark, seemed wells of thought 
About his mouth there was a pleasant smile ; 
And Ills deep-toned voice rang out like music. 
All the people loved him far and near. 
He was so gentle and so good ; and he it was 
Glencora had resigned to soothe the dying 
Wish of one who now could see how great 
Her sacrifice had been. 
While yet that sister lay shrouded below, 
Glencora, with an aching heart, a letter 
Wrote to him, blotted o'er with tears ; 
And thus the missive ran : — 

'^ My dearest now, as you evermore will be, 
I know not how or where to begin this 
My last and farewell letter unto you : 
For t]ioua;h our weddmo;-dav is set, and we 
So many blissful plans have for the future 
Made, it now must all be blotted out 
As thouo;h it ne'er had been ; for I to-nio;ht 
Have made a vow, to calm a dying soul. 
That raises a barrier high 'twixt you and me. 

" I hope some worthier one and happier 
Far than I can ever be will make to you 



THE VOW. 17 

Amends for all I've done amiss : 

And, though I may not be your wife, your friend 

Most firm and faithful I will ever be ; 

And God, dear friend, well knows 'tis not because 

I love you less I give you now this pain. 

And much I hope your prayers '11 help us both 

To bear the heavy cross I almost loathe. 

" Do not forsake me, dearest ; and remember 
You are, as you have ever been, the best 
And dearest of God's creatures in my eyes. 
And, oh I thank him, with me, this life is not 
For always. There dawns another day. 
When all the parted here shall meet ' up there ' 
To glorify our Lord. — Glencora." 

The morning sun of a chill November day 
Threw its brightening gleams across the brow 
Of the young minister as he in his 
Quiet study sat. 

Within his slender hand the golden pen 
Still held the drop of ink just dipped 
Into its hollow palm, when a gentle rap 
Upon the door proclaimed a visitor ; 
And to his kind response of " Come," Betty, 
His old friend and faithful nurse. 
With a smiling face, handed him the letter 
From Glencora ; at sight of which his face 
Lighted up to a beauty rare. And then 
He took the missive dear, and kissed it o'er 
And o'er, because, forsooth, her dear hand 
Had lately pressed it. Carefully he cut 
One end of it apart, loitering like a child 
O'er the sweetmeats it has coveted, 

2* 



18 CONSOLATION. 

While his lips softly murmured, " My darling ! 
God keep me from loving thee too well." 

His eyes had travelled half way down the sheet, 
When a cold tremor seemed to shake his frame. 
Twice he read the cruel missive over, — 
Cruel, because it blighted in their freshest 
Bloom two fond hearts. Dry and tearless sobs 
Swelled his heart almost to suffocation ; 
While on his brow, from which the waves of hair 
Were pushed so carelessly, the drops of keen 
And bitter anguish stood. 

" O God ! why hast thou forsaken me ? " he cried. 
" And must I thus resign my one ewe-lamb, — 
The only one I have, save thee, in all 
This earth ? Can I see another claim 
From her a wife's fond duty ? know her kiss. 
Which I yet can feel upon my brow. 
Henceforth rests upon another's face ? 
Can I meet her eyes, sweet mirrors of the soul. 
And crush out from my own the fond desire 
My soul must ever feel to call her mine ? 
Can I ever clasp her hand, and not feel 
The sweet electric sympathy that thrills 
Between us two ? To meet in the common 
Walks of life only as friends ! O Jesus ! 
Who by thy bloody sweat and agony 
Didst bear the cross for such as me, listen 
To my cry, and make this trial, so 
Bitter now, to prove some day for my good. 
And she, my poor Glencora ! — oh ! give her 
Strength to bear the burden she takes upon 
Herself, thinking, poor child ! she is doing 
Her duty now ; although, most unhappily. 



THE VOW. . 19 

She is making, not only for herself, 
But others, a weary bed of thorns, 
Unsolaced by the priestess of a true 
Home, — the goddess of love. 

" As all is over between us two, 
'Tis best we should not meet again ; and so 
I'll ask leave of absence for a time, 
Getting my old chum, Albert Nevers, 
To take charge of my flock for me. I am not fit 
For any duty now ; but, in other 
And far different scenes, my mind 
May be eventually restored to its olden 
Calm at least : but happiness seems ever 
Removed from my path." 

At luncheon-time, he astonished the faithful 
Betty by saying he wished her to pack some 
Linen changes in his valise ; for he 
On the morning train was going away. 
His hasty preparations were soon made ; 
His letter to his friend written, and 
To wdiich an answer of acceptance came. 
Then he from an inner pocket of his coat 
Drew forth a lady's face framed in golden case. 
Upon which he gazed long and earnestly : 
And to the thought arising in his heart 
He quick replied, " No, no ! I cannot yet 
Return this treasure dear, my bonnie bride, 
My sweet, blue-eyed Glencora." The present hour 
With its bitterness b'erwdielmed his soul ; 
And the strong man leaned his head upon 
The table-slab, weeping bitterly. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE HOSPITAL. 

THE city of Newbern, North Carolina, 
Held in possession by the victorious 
Army of the North, on the fifteenth of March 
Presented a sad spectacle of dead 
And wounded soldiers. 
Hospitals were gotten up 
In imjjj'omptu style for the suffering men ; 
And, though all was done by the humane 
Surgeons that circumstances would allow, 
The suffering of those heroes brave was 
Intense. Many a fond Northern woman's 
Heart has shed tears of bitter grief for those 
Dear lads who went from ahnost every home ; 
Many to suffer the tortures of captivity 
And death. No pen or imagination, 
Be it e'er so prolific, can picture 
The daily struggles of those to whom toll 
And hardship were once things unknown. 
In the present contest for the city 
Of Newbern, four hundred and sixty-six 
Gallant men were wounded, and ninety-one 
•Had passed on to that unseen land from whence 
No traveller returns to tell us 
Of the quiet meadows watered by the 
River of Life ; of the beautiful mounts, whose peaks 
Seem crusted o'er with gold and vermilion ; 



THE HOSPITAL. 21 

Above the streets of shining jasper, so pure 
In hohness, no sin can enter there. 

In the month of May, the slant rays of the 
Afternoon sun fell across the row 
Of single cots in the hospital- ward 
Of number eight. The thin pale faces 
Of those lying there lighted up as they 
Heard the echo of the doctor's step going 
His evening rounds. Presently their door swung 
Quietly upon its hinges, disclosing 
To their view the hospital-surgeon, 
Accompanied by a tall, noble-looking 
Man, dressed in clerical black, whom they all 
Denominated " a parson," and whom most 
Of them rejoiced to see ; the attention 
Of this stranger being kindly directed , 
By the humane physician to those who 
Had suffered most by their heroic valor 
In their country's cause. Here, as elsewhere. 
Some there were who could not admit the truth 
Of divine justness in their present trials. 

When this young soldier of the cross turned from 
One and another of* those maimed and crippled 
Men, he thought it was hard indeed to talk 
To them of submission and patience, since 
They were living monuments of a fealty 
Most loyal ; and yet he felt he could not 
Leave them there in their wounded state without 
Conveying to their souls the promises 
Of the Saviour, crucified for their sake. 

One man, who seemed older than the rest, 
Since his closely-shaven hair had turned gray, 
With wistful earnestness watched the visitor, 



22 CONSOLATIOK. 

Until at last he stood before his 
Narrow cot: and when the surgeon, turning 
Down the sheet, disclosed the stumps of his poor 
Handless arms, t^ie tears rolled down the face 
Of our old friend Solon Gordon ; for he, 
To forget his own keen trial, had sought. 
By ministering to the deeper woes of 
The sufFerincT about him, to lio-hten 
As far as possible the wearisome hours 
Of the inmates of the various hospital- 
Wards. Taking from his pocket a Common 
Prayer Book, he was proceeding to 
Open it : when the soldier cried, " You needn't 
Do that ; I want to hear none of your cant ! 
If God is wise and just, as you pious 
Ones pretend, why did he let this war 
Sweep over the country, bringing ruin 
And death to so many homes ? 
Does he give me back my two hands ? 
Restore from their early graves my sons, — 
The three brave boys ! — who, filled with valor 
For their country's wrongs, so bravely fought. 
And, fighting, died ? Will he restore to my 
Dear old wife the husband and sons 
Of her youth, and make the bread to ripen 
Without labor at her feet ? I tell you, 
No, no ! instead, this fair and pleasant land 
Will be strewn with the dead and dying. 
The war is only just begun : there will 
Be scarce one home in all the States, North or 
South, but that shall be made to mourn. And why ? 
Where is the justice of it ? I don't see 
Why the good and poor must suffer for the 



THE HOSPITAL. 23 

Sins of the rich and wicked ones. And I 

Say again, there is no God of justice 

Or mercy, or he would not allow^ 

Such things to be ; and so, as I don't beheve, 

You needn't waste your prayers on me. 

There is one in the corner there, who is 

Ahnost through with this world, and to whom you, 

Perhaps, will be a welcome messenger." 

By advice of this blunt, outspoken old man, 
Our friend slowly passed down the narrow space 
Allotted between the t\Y.o rows of cots 
Until he gained the spot designated. 
Lying before him was a young man. 
Evidently some twenty-two years of age. 
And upon whose manly face cruel Death 
Had already set his seal. In his eyes 
There gleamed a peaceful light of contentment. 

He grasped the minister's hand as though 
Welcoming a long-known friend ; so quickly 
Can the soul intuitively perceive 
Those who are congenial. The physician 
Seemed to think it would be best, perhaps, 
To leave the ward and its occupants 
To their usual rest and quietude ; 
And in the morn, as early as he liked. 
He could come asain. Biddino; his new friend 
A kindly farewell, he left him with the 
Promise of coming on the morrow, God willing. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE DYING SOLDIER. 

THE morning of the sixteenth of May found 
Solon Gordon seated by the simple 
Yet wholesome cot-bed of William King, 
Whose sallow face lighted up with vivid 
Pleasure when he saw liis kind visitor 
Of the previous day had not forgotten 
To fulfil his promise ; which, alas ! 
Too many are prone to do. 
After the morning salutations had 
Been exchanged between the two, Gordon took 
The Prayer Book, which he opened, turning 
With thoughtful hand to the one hundred 
And thirtieth Psalm, commencing, 
" Out of the deep have I called unto thee, 
O Lord ! Lord, hear my voice." 
By request of the sick man, he went through 
With the usual morning service, bearing. 
As it seemed, upon the wings of faith. 
The weary soul of him who listened, to 
The very throne of grace. At its close. 
Stretching forth his hand, the sick man cried, 
" Bless you for your kindness to one unknown, 
And but a simple soldier too ! 
Forgive me if your kindness I shall over- 
Tax ; but they tell me, sir, my lease of life 
Has most run out. You seem to me a good 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 25 

Man and a true ; and so if you will be 
So kind as to take charge of these for me," — 
Drawing from beneath his pillow two small 
Packets, — " and deliver them to the ones 
Addressed, when I am in my Southern grave. 
Then will you indeed make my last moments 
Happy by your deed of cliarity. 

" This package, tied with a strip of green, 
Belongs to my mother, who is a widow 
In the bustHng town of B,, 
In the State of Vermont. 'Twill be a sad 
Day for her when she learns her eldest boy. 
The pride of her fond heart, has run his race 
So quickly here ; though thus she prophesied 
'Twould be. This one, banded with the blue. 
Goes to Amy Norton, my old school-chum, 
The dear competitor in all my classes. 
And who by my side I had hoped, fondly. 
Some day in the future to win for my 
Own sweet wife. These are her letters and 
Dear pictured face ; and here upon my 
Heart rests the golden tress she gave me 
The sad morn we parted. And tell her. 
Too, — for she will prize that more than the 
Rest, — that her teaching and her prayers 
At last prevailed ; and I now believe 
In the Father and the Son and the 
Holy Ghost, — the three in one combined. 
She knows how sceptical I used to be. 
Often wounding her by my ill-timed jests 
Of the rarity of Christian men ; 
Judging, as too many are prone to do, 
The whole by the faithlessness of the few. 



26 CONSOLATION. 

She, dear girl ! has had bitter trials to 
Contend ao;ainst. Her mother died when she 
Was but an infant child ; and her father, 
Being left with many little ones 
Upon his hands, soon married again, — 
One who was, most unfortunately, unkind 
To him and them : so she really had no 
Home, no mother's kindly influence 
To guide her in the path of rectitude. 
Her aspirations were of a nature 
Lofty, and not easily dispelled. 
Outstripping all her mates in the common 
School, she resolved to attend the large 
And flourishing academy in the town 
Adjoining : so various methods she 
Contrived to earn the wherewithal 
With which to pay her board and tuition. 

" I need not tell you how diligently 
She toiled : oftentimes the midnight-hour 
Found her still poring o'er her books. Rivals 
From the first were we : but soon a warmer 
And more earnest feeling filled my heart 
For her ; and there was nothing, no sacrifice 
I would not make for her dear sake ; and so 
Our friendship ripened into love faithful 
Unto death. The hardest thought of all 
To me is this, — I never more shall meet 
The sunny glance of her large blue eyes, 
Nor gaze upon that brow so broad and full ; 
Ne'er listen more to her mellow voice so 
Clear, nor feel the pressure of her hand 
Upon my own tired brow. But God is good, 
And he will care for her as well as me ; 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 27 

Will lead her feet o'er pastures fittest for 
Her need. Tell her I have done my duty here 
To the best of the powers given me ; 
Shrinking not from toil, howe'er hard and 
Distasteful it might be ; and at the last 
I die resigned to my fate, well knowing 
For some good purpose 'tis wisely ordered." 

Sharp spasms of pain now contracted Will 
King's face ; and, after passing him the cordial, 
Gordon said, " As you are so weary now, 
I will leave you, and come ao;ain at nicht.'^ 

Smiling assent, the dying soldier closed 
His weary eyes, hoping to gain some rest. 

At the evening hour, the minister was 

Wending his way adown the length of ward 

Number eight. Tlie moment his e^-e rested 

Upon the face of William King, he knew 

The hours of his life were numbered : 

About his mouth and nose was the blue, pinched 

Look which ever indicates the dread reality 

Of death. With a smile he greeted the new- 

Found friend, hoarsely murmuring, " You've come 

Just in time to see me die. I am so glad 

Not to be alone ! though I am not that ; 

For the room seems full of angels. Hark, hark ! 

Did you not hear that strain of music rare ? 

They're coming near and nearer : glory be 

To thee, thou Lord of all ! " And, raising 

His hands in an ecstasy of delight. 

His eyes set ; when with one spasmodic 

Effort he gasped, " Dear mother ! Amy ! 

Blessed ! " — and, with the utterance of .that 



28 CONSOLATION. 

Last word, the spirit of William King passed 
From its prison-house of clay up to the 
Paradise of the happy souls made free. 

The next morn, at an early hour, the burial- 
Service for the dead was read over the 
Cold body of another gallant hero, 
Who, in the morning of youth, gave his health 
And life for the preservation of our 
War-stained land. 

Feeling that his mission recalled him 
Elsewhere, Solon Gordon bade farewell to 
Newbern, bearino; with him the dead soldier's 
Messages of love, and the packages 
Which he was to deliver to the mother 
And the dearest friend of the deceased. 



CHAPTER VI. 



THE MISSION. 



THE thriving town of B., not far distant 
From the Massachusetts hne, was the home 
Of Wilham King's mother, who, by the death 
Of this son, would be indeed bereft, — with 
Only one child left, and he of not much 
Promise. Gordon felt his courage fail 
Most rapidly when he found himself at 
Last before the widow's door ; for nouo-ht he 
Dreaded more than a woman's tears. 
When his sad, brief story had been told, she 
Calmly thanked him for his kindness to her 
Son ; assuring him wdth broken voice. 
That, though she could not reward him, there was 
One who would. Reminding her that she must 
Henceforth believe she had a friend in him. 
Upon wdiom she could depend in case of need, 
He, with cordial hand-clasp, bowled himself away, 
Questioning in his mind if every woman's 
Heart was as firm as seemed the one 
Of this middle-aged lady, so tearless, 
Yet so stricken. 

The first day of June, which was a bright and 
Odorous one, the dead soldier's messenger 
Found himself in the small and common- 
Looking reception-room of a large and 
Fashionable boarding-house. 

3* 



30 CONSOLATION. 

To the servant he gave his card ; waiting 

Meanwhile, with a strange desire, to see 

The face of her who filled so completely 

The young hero's ideal of a woman. 

Presently he heard the soft rustle of 

A dress upon the stair. Turning his back 

To the opening door, the visitor 

Felt that mysterious fascination 

Which some souls ever exert upon 

Sympathetic powers. He turned and bowed, 

Saying, " Miss Norton, I presume," as she. 

Advancing, met his outstretched hand. 

" Will you be seated, please ; and tell me, pray. 

Why I am thus indebted for your call." 

Viewing her with a critic's eye, Gordon 
Saw that she was fair and sweet and young ; and, 
Better still, that truth and purity looked 
Fortli from those lovely eyes of blue : her brow 
Was high and full ; her nose, the short Grecian ; 
While about her mouth, the sweetest feature 
Of the face, much tenderness, yet firmness, 
Seemed to lie : then her chin was not pointed • 
Nor retreating, but rounded and dimpled ; 
Her hair was in the shadow brown, golden 
In the sun ; her figure round and flexible ; 
And, taken as a whole, she was as sweet 
A type of womanhood as one would care 
To see. " Dear lady," he answered, speaking 
Very low, " I bring you news of a friend 
Who held you most dear, and whose memory 
Will ever treasured live within 3'our heart. 
I speak of William King, who on his dying- 
Bed gave me this, and bade me bring it you, 



THE MISSION. 31 

And with it his best love ; also to tell 

You that he'd done his duty well, dying 

At last, trusting and believing in the God 

Whom you adore ; and all through your dear faith. 

" I saw him die, and with these hands softly 
Closed his eyelids down. I saw him laid in the 
Soldier's grave, and marked the spot with a wooden 
Cross, lettered ' W. K. ; twenty-two ; May 
Sixteenth.' " All the time. Amy had sat like 
Some marble image without soul ; but, when 
Gordon arose to go, she made 'efforts 
Strong to command herself. But, alas ! the 
Strain upon her nerves was too great : fainting, 
She fell at his feet. Yery tenderly 
He laid her upon the sofa, sprinkling 
Water upon her face till she revived. 
Then the re-action came : sobs wild and deep 
Sliook her frame in convulsive throes. The friend 
At first nothing said ; but, after the 
Yiolence of her grief had spent itself. 
He again repeated the facts of lier dear friend's 
Happy death, comforting her with the sweet 
Promises of the Lord, that all " those who 
Die in Jesus shall meet again." 
Taking her hand in parting, he asked her 
"To rely upon him as a friend ; and 
He wished that she would write sometimes to him. 
And let him know how fate was using her : " 
To all of which she promised. 

And how, meantime, has fared Glencora, 
The once promised bride of the wandering 
Minister ? As the weeks slowly lapsed, 



32 CONSOLATION. 

She felt more and more the wickedness 
Of enterinor into vows she never 
Could accept with truth. Two letters she had 
Written to Gordon, claiming his pardon 
And return, — letters fraught with tenderest 
Language from her heart, but which he never 
Had received. Now he had returned, seeming 
To her eyes dearer tlian before. Sometimes 
She thouglit she would write him yet again ; but 
Pride forbade : and so the weeks rolled on 
Until the autumn came, rich with fruitage 
And with flowers. One fair autumnal eve, 
At the closing of the week, the minister, 
Returning from a pleasant but lonely 
Stroll, was met at the door by his faithful 
Betty, who announced that " a lady all 
In black was waiting in the study for 
His return." Little thinking who was his 
Guest, he quietly entered the room ; and 
At first it seemed vacant, as the gloom 
Of the twilight hour concealed from view 
The form of the tremblino- woman, 
Who, advancing, threw herself at his feet. 
Crying, " Have you indeed forgotten your 
Glencora, who, humbly kneeling at your feet, 
Lnplores forgiveness for the past, and love 
For the future? I cannot live without 
You, my darling and my pride : nothing 
In this life seems worth the having, bereft 
Of you. I'd rather live in the poorest 
Hovel, upon some lone mountain, as your ivife, 
Than be the titled misti^ss of thousands, 
With countless servants to heed my slightest 



THE MISSION. 33 

Call. When I promised you to forsake, 

I thought it was my duty : but, alas ! 

I've found 'twould be a trespass upon the 

Holiest laws of God and man should I 

Persist in keeping that mad vow ; for I 

Love him not, save as the father of my 

Sister's child ; and she in paradise doth 

Surely know how utterly wrong the keeping 

Of her wish would be. My pride I've humbled ; 

And here I am suing for your dear love, 

The best and richest gift earth can on me 

Bestow. Gordon, dear one, oh ! say you'll not refuse 

Your poor Glencora ! " 

" Refuse you ? no, my darling ! " quoth he : 

" You are much too sweet and dear a treasure 

To my heart for a resistance to your 

Love. For months I've sought to blot your image 

From my soul ; but never has there dawned 

A day or hour that I have not thought of 

You, my treasure sweet." And, bending low. 

He raised her from his feet, restino; her head 

Upon his breast, her face bathing with the 

Happy drops of joy, and then softly kissing 

Them away. The blissful silence that e'er 

Falls between the long parted and re-united 

Ones fell upon them in tliat hour of peace. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE REPLEDGED. 

OCTOBER the sixteenth was the time 
Re-appointed by Glencora for the 
Consummation of tlieir marriage. The guests 
Were invited, the weddino:-a:arments made, 
And the bride-cake was ready for the knife ; 
When, like a two-edged sword to the young 
Pastor, came another note from Glencora, 
Saying she once again had proved traitor- 
To her vows, and all must drop at the 
Eleventh hour : not one word the reason 
To assign ; leaving him and others to 
Their own conjectures. 
This was, in truth, the hardest trial he 
Had yet been called upon to bear. He felt 
'Twas neither wise nor best for him to longer 
Tarry in the place where twice he had been 
Duped by the loving words of a woman 
Unstable as water, and whose conduct 
Would cast a seeming disgrace upon his 
Character. He at once called a parish- 
Meeting, simply asking them for a quick 
Dismissal, which was without a murmur 
Granted ; for the people were sensitive 
To their minister's misfortune. 

Once more was Gordon a wanderer. 
Roaming from place to place where'er his feet, 



THE EEPLEDGED. 35 

So restless, were guided by the hand of Fate. 

At last he thought of Amy Norton, from 

Whom he had heard by letter, it is true ; 

But the sympathy of whose sweet face 

He felt would now be doubly precious. 

Speedily his way he wended to the 

Inland town where she resided ; and, when 

He had clasped in his her welcoming hand, 

He felt as though he had indeed a friend 

In that dear woman. He came again, and 

Yet again, the souls of each grown nearer 

From their frequent intercourse of thought j 

Until at last he shaped into words the 

One thought that in his dormant heart 

Had struf]i;o;led into life : and thus it was 

He showed her all his heart, telling her 

With tearful eyes of high hopes blighted, and 

The heart's fondest affections chilled, by the 

Fickle nature of one woman's caprice. 

He had loved her, oh, so much ! yet she duped 

And betrayed him. " Perhaps," he said, " he'd made 

Of her too fond an idol, forgetting 

The Creator in the creature ; but now 

'Twas all a dream of the past, sweet and pleasant. 

But with the life before him shared no part. 

She had suffered too, therefore could enter 

Into all his feelings. Sympathy was sweet. 

And there were many things between themselves 

Congenial. The warmest friendship and 

Respect stirred the hearts of both, each for each ; 

And why should they not unite their broken 

Lives in the strong, endearing cord of 

Matrimony ? They thus could lighten each 



36 CONSOLATION. 

The other's woe, and be the best of friends ; 

Since reason would guide their actions, and not 

The wild delirium of love." 

To this mild philosophy fair Amy gave 

Assent ; and they right speedily were 

Married, and enjoying the peaceful rest 

Of a Platonic love. In course of time, 

Four children — three sons and a dauMiter dear — 

Biightened their home, and strengthened the placid 

Friendship of the two so happily united. 

Soon after leaving W., he had a call 
To preside oyer a parish in the 
City of Albany, New York ; and there 
Until the death of his gentle Amy, 
Which transpired when the tiny Sarah 
Was a sedate little miss of two years. 
He had hved, laboring for his Master's 
Cause. Fortune had not been .lavish of her 
Smiles. Once the little parsonage and all 
Its contents were burned to the ground ; 
And, though his parishioners were most kind. 
They could not to him restore his library, 
Made dear from memories of the past. 
In less than a year after his wife's decease. 
His second son " passed over the river, 
'Yond the tide ; " and soon, following him, his 
Little daughter " sailed away with the boatman 
Pale : " and so his household joys were wrested 
From his clasping arms of love. 
Feeling that home was now home no longer, 
He sent his eldest son to live with his 
Grandparents, keeping his youngest 
(And the inheritor of his name) with him. 



THE EEPLEDGED. 37 

From city to city, to country town 
And village, they roamed, — the father and son 
Ever inseparable. Years would be consumed 
In followino; them in their various 
Sojournings : so we will leave them to fate, 
While we look after other characters 
Of our story who have been too long 
Neglected. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

SARAH HORTON. 

« 

TEARS have placed their record upon 
The book of Time since Sarah entered Madam 
R.'s " Seminary for Young Ladies," — 
The first two years as a pupil, 
Afterward as an assistant-teacher. 
She had been there some twenty-two months, when 
She one night received a despatch from her 
Grandpa Stevens, saying, *' Come home at once : 
Your mother is dead ! " Oh, dreadful words to 
A loving child ! — your mother is dead ! 
Volumes seem written in that one phrase. 
Sarah immediately gave notice 
To the principal of the school ; and 'mid 
The tears of her classmates and teachers, all 
Of whom had learned to love her, she quickly 
Departed on her sorrowful journey. 
But not alone was she. The teacher of 
Mathematics, a quiet and scholarly 
Man, had thoughtfully followed her, and, 
In his gentle way, soothed much of her grief ; 
Presenting to her view the beauty of 
The life beyond, and that, instead of our 
Feeling so unreconciled to the departure 
Of those our hearts hold dear, we sliould esteem 
It a blessing for them, if not for us. 
Rapidly as the train moved, it yet seemed 



SAEAH HOETON. 39 

To the sorrowing girl freighted with lead •; when 

Suddenly the cars with a frightful leap 

Went crashing through a bridge into the 

Cold, blue waters of the Connecticut. 

The sickening details of that sad, sad 

Catastrophe, no pen can describe. 

Four were killed, and seventeen wounded ; and 

Among the dead was the kind friend who had 

So tenderly befriended her in her 

Sorrow, and who, they told her, had stood between 

Her and death, as his head had been pressed 

Against the stone hutments of the bridge, where 

Hers would naturally have fallen had he 

Not thrown his arm about her, — giving for 

Her life his own. One of her arms was broken, 

Her left ankle sprained, with some cuts upon 

Her face. The nearest houses were turned 

Into hospitals. Where Sarah was left. 

Five gentlemen and three ladies were brought, — 

Some in the most critical condition. 

The present hour was to our heroine 

The climax of her sorrows, since she now 

Could not reach home in season to see once 

Ao-ain her dear, dead mother's face ; for on 

The morrow would be the funeral ; and she 

Could not be moved for some days, and perhaps 

Weeks, the attending surgeon said. 

Meanwhile, sharing her own couch, was a young 
Lady from Illinois, who had been on a 
Visit to some friends in Springfield, Mass. 
She was severely suflPering from a 
Spinal injury received in the late 
Disaster, Yet her fortitude and patience 



40 CONSOLATION. 

Seemed to Sarah and to others as somethino: 

Ahiiost divine. Her lovely face, though pale 

From suffering, seemed lighted with a power 

Pertainins; not to earth. Passing her hand 

Most lovingly over Sarah's tear-wet 

Cheek, she queried with sympathetic voice 

If she might not learn the cause of her grief ; 

For well she knew it was not the pain that 

Caused such bitter tears to fall mixed with the 

Cry of " Mother ! O my mother ! " 

'JNIid broken sobs and tears the poor girl turned 

To that dear friend in her distress, pouring 

Out to her sympathetic ear the history 

Of her grief and of her mother's sad and 

Broken life. " And now, to think that she is dead, 

And I, her only child, cannot pay to 

Her the last fond tribute of respect, seems 

Almost more than I can bear ! " moaned Sarah 

In her anguished grief. 

" It is, in truth, a trial keen," replied 

Sweet Cornie Houston. "Perhaps 'twill soothe your 

Grief to know I, too, have lost my mother. 

With you, no pangs of remorse linger 

Around your heart in memory of that 

Dear and ever-cherished friend's decease : 

While I must always bear the sting of self- 

Reproach; for 'twas through my own wilfulness 

My mother was hastened to her death." 



CHAPTER IX. 



'^ ~\'\TH^^ I w^s sixteen, I, with an elder 

V V Sister, — who now stands in the place of a 
Mother and a sister too, so kind is she 
To me, — was sent away to school, and there 
Formed the acquaintance of Ralph Hammond, 
A young student of pleasing address. But 
I since have learned his morals were corrupt. 
Then I could in him no failing see, and 
At last grew so infatuated, I 
Was quite ready to accede to his proposed 
Elopement, thinking it would be something 
Grand to relate in after-years : besides, 
Would not the newspapers chronicle the 
Event with superfluous items of their 
Own ? Each Wednesday afternoon, the pupils, 
From three to eight o'clock, had a holiday ; 
The intervening hours to pass as best should 
Suit their fancy. For several weeks, Ralph and 
I the fondest love-letters had written 
And exchanged, hiding them beneath a large 
Flat stone at the end of the garden-walk. 
Under cover of this impromptu office. 
All, our plans of elopement had been 
Discussed and finally arranged ; and thus 
The matter stood. I was to mincrle with 



42 CONSOLATION. 

The others, careless and unconcerned, as 
Though no weighty act was pressing on my 
Heart. The tea-bell rang at seven : and then, 
Making an excuse, I hurried to my 
Room, where I rapidly exchanged my dress 
For the one I had selected ; hastily 
Gathered a few most needful articles ; 
Down the broad stairs sped, across the garden- 
Walk, and out by the little wicket-gate, 
Close by which Ralph was awaiting me. 
' My darling girl ! ' he cried as he helped me 
Throuo;h. ' I was so afraid Maria would find 
It out, and all our fun be stopped ! 
Now hurrah ! away for the station, or 
We shall miss the train, and also miss 
The boat.' We were in time ; and quickly, and. 
To my seeming, all too soon, we reached the 
Station on the wharf; for even then 
My heart misgave me, and I wished myself 
Back again by dear Maria, who, I knew. 
Was ere this searching for Sister Cornie. 

" We safely reached New York ; were booked at the 
Astor House. Leaving me alone, Ralph went 
Out to make inquiries rela4:ive to 
A clergyman who would unite us. 
He had been gone an hour or more, when on 
My door there came a heavy knock. 

'^ Unthinking of the grief in store for me, 
I answered the demand. Before me stood 
An official anient, bearino; a telem'am 
From my sister, running thus : — 
' Our mother is dead ! come home at once, dear 
Cornie ! — Maria.' 



CORNIE'S STORY. 43 

You, my dear Sarah, can imagine somewhat 
Of my feehngs in that hour. At once I 
Started, and alone, leaving for Ralph a 
Line, saying, ' Gone home. Farewell forever ! — 

CORNIE.' 

In a state of mind bordering upon 
Frenzy, I arrived at home, and found my 
Sister's message was too true, and I had 
Killed her ! " 

Powerful emotion shook Miss Houston's 
Feeble form at the bare memory of 
The dire calamity she had caused. Sarah 
Gently urged her not to harrow up that 
Sad past, as 'twould surely make her ill. 
After a little, she resumed in calmer 
Tones : — 

" Missing me at the supper-table, my 
Sister r^n up to our room to see what 
Had become of me ; where, finding things in 
Such disorder, she at once proceeded 
To ' tidy up ' the room, as she expressed 
It. Lifting from the floor the dress I'd worn. 
With a'gentle shake she was proceeding 
To hang it in the wardrobe, when from its 
Folds a letter fell, which she at once 
Unclosed and read. And then she knew it all; 
For in that, the last one Ralph had written 
Me, the plan of the elopement, and place 
Of sojourn, was fully explained. At first. 
My sister was bewildered ; but anon 
She thought, ' I will not let our schoolmates know, 
Since there is no need.' Speeding to the 
Telegraph-room, she sent her message : — 



44 CONSOLATION. 

' Cornie has eloped — New York — Astor House 
Tell me what to do. — Maria.' 

" Our parents were seated upon the broad 
Veranda of their country home, fronting 
To the west ; when down the tree-lined avenue 
A horseman from the village galloped up, 
And to our father gave Maria's despatch. 
* Good God ! ' he, turning to mamma, cried out, 
' Our Cornie has with some scamp eloped, 
And gone to York ! — so our Maria says. 
Now, is not this a pretty ' — But the sentence 
Was never completed; for mother was* 
Leaning against the trellis-frame of the 
Door, white and motionless ; and, in less time 
Than it takes me to record it, toas dead! 
We all, for years, had known there was a small 
Collection of water about her heart, 
Which any undue excitement or grief 
Would determine a rupture, producing 
Almost instant death ; and so we had 
Always careful been heretofore. But then 
My father was so surprised, he did not 
Realize the danger his startling * 

News would engender. On me, and me 
Alone, her sudden death must rest. At first, ' 
I felt most wild with grief; but passing years 
Have lifted from my heart its heaviest 
Weights, crushing all joyousness from my life. 
I find sweet consolation in the thought, 
There is a purpose in each event of life : 
A power divine is leading us tlu'ough ways 
We would not walk were we not o-uided there ; 



COENIE'S STOEY. 45 

And what may now so strange and chanceful seem 
Is but the hand of Fate, whose leadincr-lines 
Are often tangled in the brittle web 
Our hands seem weaving for ourselves, thinking, 
Meantime, we our own destinies are shaping. " 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE TWO FRIENDS. 

IN the quiet old town of N., bordering 
Upon the lovely Connecticut, stands 
A large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by 
Elm-trees tall and old. Here Nathan Stevens 
Had from his marriage lived, and his 
Large family had been born and bred ; and 
Now all were gone save one, — the youngest son. 
Who, at the time of which we speak, was 
Not so very young, as more than thirty winters 
Had set their seal upon his brow. 
Mr. Stevens, or Uncle Nat as he 
Was termed by old and young, was the brother 
Of Sarah Horton's mother. He, on learning 
Of the accident which had befallen 
Her, wrote a letter overflowino^ 
With sympathy and love. In it he begged 
That Sarah would come to them as soon as 
It was prudent, and make a lengthy stop. 
The sorrowing girl was very glad when 
She read Uncle Nathan's missive ; for she had 
Dreaded returning to her grandpa's. 
Where every thing would so remind her of 
Her mother. One thought, however, dampened 
All her joy, — the idea of leaving 
Cornie Houston, who was not able yet 
To journey home. " If Cornie could but go 



THE TWO FBIENDS. 47 

With her I And why not ? " was Sarah's thought. 

The new-born wish was set to words, to which 

An answer came, — " Bring all the friends you wish : 

Be sure they and you are welcome." 

Thus it was, the week before Thanksgiving, — 

That dear, time-honored day, — those two 

So strangely brought together were resting 

Beneath the ample roof of Uncle Nathan. 

Charles Stevens, though old enough in years. 
Was a bashful man, wooing his books. 
And not the ladies. His nature was 
A sweet and silent one. Beneath his quiet 
Ways were hidden rich veins of wit and 
Knowledge, which sometimes, in unguarded 
Moments, would peep out like sun-gleams beneath 
A cloud. At first, of Cornie he was shy ; 
But after a time, as he grew wonted 
To her presence, Sarah saw his eyes oft 
Rest upon her friend with earnest gaze. 
Quietly and happily some six weeks 
Had lapsed their record upon the book of Time, 
When Cornie, upon receipt of home-letters, 
Declared she must within the coming week 
Bid adieu to her dear and cherished friends, 
And turn her steps homeward. A friend 
Of her father would pass that way within 
Ten days, with whom she could journey all the 
Way to her home. Not one word was uttered 
In protest ; and yet not one in the dear, 
Familiar circle but felt it would be 
A trial to lose the presence of this 
Sweet girl, so patient and tender in all 
Her ways. 



48 CONSOLATION. 

" I'll tell you what, wife," good Uncle Nathan 
Said, " we must make a party for these girls. 
One good, old-fashioned time we'll have before 
We part ; so Cornie here, in her Western 
Home, may remember how we old farmers 
Do thino-s in Massachusetts." 

" Indeed we will ! " quoth Aunt Fannie. *' I'll send 
To-morrow morn for Hannah Jenks, whose nose 
Would be forever out of joint should there 
Be a party gotten up, and she no 
Finger in it. 

I'm right glad you named it, Nathan ; for it 
Is just what we need to rouse us up," 
Said Aunt Fannie, following him she loved, 
To make arrangements for the gala-night. 

With the morning came Miss Hannah Jenks, 
Who with her funny ways, and her " Massy sakes ! " 
Kept the friends in a titter all the day. 
Loner before the festive hour arrived. 
Every thing was pronounced by Aunt Fanny 
And Hannah in " apple-pie order." 
The lighter and more pleasing duties 
Had fallen upon Charles and the two girls, 
Who had ruthlessly robbed, not only Uncle 
Nat's, but all the neighboring house-plants 
Of their blooms, with which to deck the scene. 
At last the eventful Thursday eve was 
Welcomed by Uncle Nathan and his wife. 
Who, dressed in their best, stood at the entrance 
Of their large and brightly-lighted parlors, 
Receiving the numerous and smiling 
Guests fast assembling there. 
The two friends, escorted by the bashful 



THE TWO FEIENDS. 49 

Charles Stevens, were soon the cynosure of all 

Eyes ; though Sarah quickly perceived that 'twas 

Her friend's sweet face and queenly grace of 

Manner that was the centre of attraction. 

No thought of jealousy wound itself into 

Her heart, as is too often the case 'mid 

Those professing warmest friendship. 

She was an ardent admirer of Cornie 

Herself, and would have felt aggrieved to see 

That others did not share the loving homage 

She laid with loyal love at her dear one's feet. 

" I declare ! " said Julia Alden, one of 

The sprightly beauties of the town, " I didn't 

Know before that your cousin could talk. 

Just see him now, bending o'er Miss Houston, 

Conversing as though his very life was 

Forfeited ! " Sarah turned her eyes upon 

Her cousin's face, and saw what she before 

Had only questioned in her mind might be 

In the coming future. But how was it 

With Cornie ? She dared not ask, but would wait, 

Giving them every chance for meeting, if 

They wished. 

Music was called for ; and old Squire Hastings 
With courteous smile and bow, begged Miss Houston 
For a song, — "just one," he said. 
- With sweet assent she yielded, and was led 
By the kind old gentleman to the 
Piano ; striking the keys of which, with 
Gentle prelude she awakened into 
Life the sympathetic (?ord running through 
All hearts by the sweet melody of 
Her impromptu song : — 



50 CONSOLATION. 

" Dear friends, kind friends, of Massacliusetts State, 
i\Iy gratitude accept for favors small and great : 
I came to you a stranger, ill, and quite forlorn ; 
And I can you repay with but a simple song. 

When I'm far, far away, within my Western home, 
I shall remember hours the brightest I have known. 
My heart will linger oft 'mid scenes I love so well : 
For we may meet no more ; the future none can tell. 

Life's changes, like a book, we're turning leaf by leaf; 
For us our summer holidays are ever all too brief: 
Soon the parting comes, when friendships true must sever ; 
But, oh, thank God ! it cannot be forever." 

Tears were in the eyes of the fair songstress 
As she arose from the piano ; and 
Tears also filled the eyes of more than one 
Honest heart who listened to the touching 
Pathos of her song. 

The quiet stillness of the room was broken 
By Uncle Nathan, who announced that " all 
Those desirous of witnessing the tableaux 
Would please adjourn to the library." 
Approaching Cornie, he seemed to be pressing 
Something upon her ; to which, at first, she 
Seemed disinclined to listen ; but later 
She bowed her head in acquiescence. 
One of the young lady-actors had been 
Suddenly called away ; and there seemed 
To be no one who could well fill her place, 
Save Cornie ; and thus was she selected. 
The fifth scene represented her, queenly 
And fair as the bridal rose, standing as 
The betrothed of young Stevens, who, bending 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 51 

On one knee, was in the act of placing 

Upon her finger the betrothal ring ; 

When he whispered, " Look at me ! oh, look ! " 

And she, with flushing cheeks, turned her eyes 

For one brief moment on his face, and yet 

Full long for her to read in his the old 

Sweet story, so dear to the heart of woman 

When coming, as it now did, from one 

So well beloved. 

" If this was only a reality ! " he 

Murmured, as the curtain folded them from 

Sight. The' grand and beautiful tableau, 

" Rock of Ages," was the closino; scene. 

Anon the merry company dispersed, 
Writing down upon their calendar- 
Book of " good times " another, and perhaps,. 
For some, a " last good time." 



CHAPTER XL 



THE DEPARTURE. 



THE bright beams of a winter sun streamed in 
Upon the thoughtful brow of Charles Stevens, 
Who, seated in the pleasant library 
Of his father's house, was seekinc^ to still 
His wildly-throbbing heart before the hour 
Should come when he must bid farewell to one 
Who had, for his peace of mind, become much 
Too dear a treasure for him to lose, as now he 
Saw he must, without a parting sigh. 
While yet "he sat buried in mental thought. 
The door quietly unclosed, admitting 
Cornie, who, smilijig bade him a pleasant 
Morn ; and had he seen her little book of 
Songs? She could not find it elsewhere, so thought 
It might have been mislaid among the books 
In there. 

" I'll help you search," said Charles, approaching near 
But when he found himself close by her side. 
And thought how soon she would be gone, perhaps 
Forever, his bashful ness slipped from him 
Like a garment old, to be exchanged for 
One newer and brighter. Seizing her hand. 
Which he with gentle fervor pressed, he cried, 
" How can I let you go, dear Cornie ? 
The house will seem doubly desolate 
Bereft of you and Sarah. I know not 



THE DEPAETUEE. 53 

How I ever lived before you came. 

In truth, it was not living, but a tame 

Existence, which the past few weeks have taught 

Me most heartily to loathe. By every 

Pleasant hour we've passed, by all the sweet 

Soul-thoughts between us nourished, by every 

Song you've sung, by every joy we've shared 

And thought us two between, I claim you for 

My friend, near and dear. And Cornie, darling! 

Must it be only friend ? May not a nearer 

Tie exist between us two ? or is there 

Some other who would claim the one /choose 

For wife ? " 

Flushed with eagerness he stood, his hand 

Upon her shoulder resting, awaiting 

Her reply, which came at last, — "Z^ cannot 

Bey 

" No hope? — none ? O Cornie ! at least I may write ? " 

He queried with broken voice. " It is not best ; 

But strive to forget me, as thouo;h we had 

Never met," she answered back. 

Just then Sarah's voice was heard, loudly 

Calling for her friend. " I must go," Cornie 

Gently said, looking up with wistful eyes, 

As though she would daguerrotype 

His face forever in her mind. *' Yes," he said. 

Unconscious of the word ; " and, as I go 

This morn to F., you will be away ere 

I return. Perhaps 'tis better thus. 

Sometimes remember him whose future days 

Will ever be one memory of you. And now 

God bless you, and good-by ! " 

Silently Cornie Houston turned from him, 
5* *«• 



54 CONSOLATION. 

Unheeding her fallen hankerchief as 

She passed from the room. Not so unmindful 

He : for scarcely was she gone ere his eye 

Rested upon it ; and, stooping, he raised 

The dainty fabric to his lips again 

And yet again, while the soft perfume 

It distilled through all the room seemed redolent 

Of her presence. He placed it in his 

Pocket in company with the book he 

Had purloined. Soon he, too, passed from the 

Room, and anon w^as on his way to F. 

Two hours more beheld Cornie and Sarah, 
Accompanied by Uncle Nathan, 
Driving toward the town of V. ; 
For, at this junction, Cornie's father 
Had written her she would meet his friend. 

Silence fell between the two so soon 
To be separated. Many sweet 
Communinors had knit their souls too-ether 
In close bonds of sympathy ; and now 
God alone could know, if, in their coming 
Years, their paths would ever mingle 
Again as in the pleasant days agone. 

Ai'riving at the station, our party 
Found there was none too much time, as the train 
For the West was even then approaching. 
Upon the platform of the advancing 
Train stood a tall, dark-browed man, who, stepping 
From the car ere 3^et it ceased to move. 
Advanced towards the two, and asked 
If either of the ladies was Miss 
Houston, of whom he was to take charge 
By request of her father. 



THE DEPAETUEE. 55 

Stepping forward, Cornie replied, *' I 
Am she you seek ; and you are Mr. 
Golding ? These are my friends, — Miss Horton, 
And her uncle Mr. Stevens." 
At that moment, " All aboard ! " sang out 
The conductor's voice : so, with a hasty 
Embrace, the two girls, with mutual vows 
Of remembrance and correspondence, 
Separated, — to meet how" and where ? 

Later that same day, Charles returned from his 

Ride to F. in but a sorry plight. 

*' Beauty had taken flight," he said, " upon 

His homeward way, at an ugly 

Wheelbarrow standing by the wayside. 

And began to run ; but he kept him 

In check, until a sudden turn in 

The road capsized the sleigh, throwing him 

Upon the crusted snow, thereby 

Bruising his face somewhat, and tearing 

His coat, which he would be pleased to have 

His cousin mend." 

With a happy smile, she, procuring silk 
And thimble, sat down by her cousin's 
Side 3 meanwhile telling him of Cornie 
And her farewell words. 
Turning the garment up and dowm, in 
And in, there fell from its breast-pocket 
A book and handkerchief, which needed 
Not its sweet perfume to tell her who 
Was once the owner. With furtive glance 
She souojht her cousin's face wuth 
Questioning eyes. Seeing his 



56 CONSOLATION. 

Desponding look, she asked with gentle 

Voice, " What is it, Charlie dear, between 

You two? Is it not to be ? " 

" No ; it is not to be," he answered back. 

" But why ? " persisted Sarah. " Did she 

No reason to you assign ? " 

" None." 

" And yet," she mused, " I'm sure she loves 

Him. I'll solve the riddle yet." 



CHAPTER XII. 



NEW TIES. 



A FEW clays after Cornie's departure, 
Sarah received from Madam R. a 
Letter, ofFeriiig for her acceptance the 
Position of assistant teacher 
In place of one who had left since her 
Departure. A new lady principal 
Was also installed ; and various 
Changes had transpired in the few weeks 
Of her absence. Despite the urgent 
Entreaties of her grandfather and 
Uncle Nathan, Sarah wrote an eager 
Letter of acceptance and thanks ; 
The time of her return appointed for 
The coming week. Fondly and sadly 
The young girl parted from those so dear 
To her by ties of nature, and found 
Herself once more a resident 
Beneath the ample roof of Madam 
R. She and the new principal were 
To consort together, sharing one 
Room, and, as events proved, many a 
Pleasant hour of converse. 
Glencora Mayo, from W., Vermont, 
Was a lady gentle and prepossessing 
In all her ways. Sarah at once felt 
That they should be friends warm and true. 



58 CONSOLATION. 

There was about her a nameless charm, 

A quiet sadness, or serenity 

Of peace that won upon each kind 

Sympathy at once. Not until long 

Months afterwards did she learn the inner 

Life of her friend ; then, in the ravings 

Of delirium, she unlocked from the 

Closet of her heart the ghosts tliat had 

For weary months been haunting her. 

One name seemed ever upon her lips. 

The most frantic appeals were made to 

This same friend for love and protection. 

One night, in the height of her mad ravings, 

She seemed most determined to leave the 

Room ; while with gleaming eyes she whispered, 

" I must see him : I tuill tell him 

How all the time I loved but him ; and 

How at last they told me, if I kept 

Not my vow, my dead sister's curse would 

Follow me and mine all our days ; 

And, if I'd save him from reproach and 

Sin, I must him renounce, e'en at the altar. 

Oh hard and cruel fate ! Yet I was 

Weak, and yielded to their power. 

Now he has gone from me forever : 

Another, a lady fair and gentle. 

Is sheltered on the breast I love so well. 

" Another than Glencora 
Fulfils the duties of a wife ; and • 

I, the faithless and yet the stricken 
One, must bear the burden it seems 
Ofttimes must crush my very soul." 
For days and weeks did Sarah watch by 



NEW TIES. 69 



The sick-bed of her friend, allowino; 

None to share with her the lonely vigils 

Of the night save the physician, who 

Must necessarily understand 

Far better than herself the electric 

Sympathy between heart and brain. 

She, m the reticence of her heart, 

Felt that her friend's secret, which she so 

Carefully guarded in her hours of 

Health, should not be exposed to the oft 

Careless and unsympathetic remarks 

Of others. Though often weary, she 

Still toiled on with tearful eye and aching 

Brow ; and at last was rewarded one 

Morning, during the doctor's daily 

Visit, by hearing him say, '^ Your friend 

Is better. Keep her perfectly quiet 

When she awakens from this gentle 

Sleep. I think I can trust you," he 

Resumed : '' for I give you this assurance. 

That, under God, she owes her life to 

You ; since the ph3^sician's efforts are 

Futile unless seconded by the 

Prompt, unceasing care you have 

Displayed in following my directions. 

Aside from the many little acts 

The heart of a faithful nurse inspires. 

Hereafter I recommend you to 

Change your vocation of teacher to 

That of nurse," he added with pleasant 

Smile. 

Some two hours later, as Sarah 

Sat watching by her friend, now weak and 



60 CONSOLATION. 

Helpless as a child, her eyes unclosed, 

And, with a look of wonder, rested 

Upon her attendant's face. Gone, then. 

Was the wild and burning look which 

For many days had haunted them, and, 

With a wistful gaze, they turned on surrounding 

Objects. 

With whispered voice she queried, " What is 

It ? Why are you here ? Am I sick ? 

Why do things seem so strange to me? " 

" Hush ! you must not talk ; but be good, and 

I will tell you all about it soon. 

Now take this strengthening tea, and let 

Me bathe your face. There, now ; that is nice. 

You've been very ill, my dear, but now 

Are out of danger." 

The weary eyes soon closed again in 

Slumber. Tlie next day, as Sarah was 

Freshening up the room. Miss Mayo 

Asked her with timid voice if she had 

Talked in her sleep, and what she said. 

With adroit tenderness, her friend told 

Her of the fancies she had cherished. 

And how that one name was ever on 

Her lips ; and that was Solon Gordon ! 

She told her how she saw from the first 

Some heavy heart-grief was hidden 

From the common gaze, as the miser 

Hides his cherished gold ; and so when she 

Grew so ill, and unwittingly revealed 

That which had long been hidden, she was 

Determined in her mind none other than 

Herself should listen to the ravin o^s 



GLENCOEA MAYO'S STORY. 61 

Of her tortured mind : she had only 
Done by her as she should wish a friend 
To do by herself were she so circumstanced. 
She had, she owned, learned so much of her 
Friend's past, she would like to gather more 
Some day, if in her friendship she could 
Faithfully trust ; if not, no matter. 

What now she knew 
Would sacred he within her heart, and 
She would ever feel the strongest 
Sympathy and love for one who had 
Bi;avely suffered so much and so long. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

GLENCORA MAYo's STORY. 

"Oi OME years ago, I was the promised 

k3 Wife of my heart's dear and chosen one, 
Solon Gordon. My sister died, and. 
Dying, wished me to promise some day 
To marry her husband for the sake of 
Her child. But passing time proved to 
Me I could not with honor keep my 
Vow, After the return of one I 
Almost worshipped, whom I had driven 
To exile for many months, I so 
Far humbled my pride as to sue for 
His forgiveness and a renewal 
Of his love ; to which his generous 
Nature freely responded. 
Another wedding-day was set ; when 
I, cowed and frightened by the jeering 
Oaths and maledictions of those fiends 
In human shape, again betrayed his 
Confidence and love in me. 
Not one word of palliation was 
I permitted to offer to the 
Being whom I had twice wantonly 
Insulted through his tenderest feelino-s. 
I suffered from an attack of brain- 
Fever, which brought me so near Death's door, 
It seems almost a wonder I did 



GLENCOEA MAYO'S STOEY. 63 

Survive. From that bed of anguish I 

Arose to learn that the man I had 

Twice outraged had gone, none knew whither. 

Ere my strength had fully returned, 

I was beset to marry Charles Steele. 

Ah ! he is rightly named. 

I rebelled ; and, incredible as 

It may seem in these days, my brother 

Kept me a prisoner in my room 

For two weeks, and the last one served me 

But one meal per day. Opposition 

To their will seemed so to enrage them, 

They seemed more like brutes than human 

Beinors. Finding at last that I would not 

Yield to harsh treatment, they tried the 

Persuasive ; but again I was like 

Adamant. Too yielding in the past 

To the will of others, I had learned 

By bitter experience, when, as it 

Seemed, almost too late, that my heart was 

My best and most honest counsellor. 

Finally I was turned from the house, 

And forbidden ever again to 

Darken it with my hateful presence. 

I left it, all unknowing where my 

Steps should lead, trusting the hand of God 

Would guide and sustain me. 

Feeling that I needed some active 

And engrossing duty to divert 

My mind from my own sorrows, I sought 

A large city in the Empire State. 

Soon after my arrival there, in 

Answer to my application, I 



64 CONSOLATION. 

Was elected assistant matron 

In the Female Hospital. For four 

Years I followed this life of toil and 

Recompense : ay, recompense ; for is it 

Not such, when the weary faces of the 

Sufferers light up with joy divine 

At the approach of one who has toiled 

To ease their pain, and soothe by kind 

Ministrations their fretful repinings ? 

One sweet old lady, who in one year's 

Time had been bereft of husband, child, 

And home, won most upon my sympathies. 

'No doubt have I but her dear words of 

Faith and trustful love in the Father's 

Will did more to ease my heart than all 

Else combined. So confident was she 

Christ's power and tove was over all 

iVnd in all ; that what we needed most 

We should receive, e'pn though it should be 

Farthest from our wills, — that I at 

"^jast the same inculcated. The yoke I'd almost 

Scorned to bear seemed lighter then, and I 

Was not alone. The dear Lord was my 

Helper and my friend : alone, deserted, 

As I felt, I yet was not alone. 

At last, it came to me my labor 

There was done. The world was wide, and 

Various occupations open to my . 

Acceptance. Always ardently 

Fond of music, I bethouo;ht me of 

A plan long ago cherished, — to be 

A teacher of music. Perfectino- 

o 

Myself in a method of recent 



GLENCOPvA MAYO'S STOBY. 

Date, I threw myself once more upon 

The world, a wanderer. Another 

Two years were passed in restless journeymgs. 

" Through Massachusetts and New York I 
Roamed. New Hampshire and Canada 
My feet have also pressed. I loved my task. 

" O music ! grand and subhme art thou 
In thy native power ! What human 
Heart so dull and dead that thy sweet voice 
Cannot awaken to holy 
Symphony ? Thrills of rapture keen seem 
To chase the life-blood from my heart when 
The soft music of Handel and Mozart 
Floods the air with its rhythmic melody. 

" And yet again I wearied of my 
Wanderings. Casually I saw the 
Advertisement of Madam R., and 
Hither came, unknowing how long my 
Wild unrest will slumber. Here we have 
Met, the corner-stone of our friendship 
Placing upon sympathy of soul. 
Many ties of friendship have I formed 
Since my banishment from kindred friends ; 
But none have proven sweeter than yours. 

Oh, may tfiis blessed bond, so sweet and 
Pure and so true, grow strong, and yet more 
Strong, with passing years ! Yet, despite 

These friendships, I often query of 
" My soul, What good do I do, or what 

Happiness confer ? My days seem- but 

A continuance, or like some 

Divided mechanism of art, 

6* 



65 



6Q CONSOLATION. 

That keeps perpetual motion because 
It cannot stop save at the master 
Touch. I find no consolation 
Where'er I turn. Upon a pedestal 
High I have placed Duty, dressed in sombre 
Robes. Do as I will, she mocks me. 
While crowning her with my hardly-won 
Labors, she wreaths for my gaze Love's 
Fairest pictures. A home she shadows forth, 
A perfect garden of contented love, 
Where Hope and Peace walk hand in hand, 
Where Joy blooms eternal, and Faith dies 
Not, — a very paradise on earth. 

" But for Duty, stern and pitiless 
As Death, this bower of Eden might 
Have sheltered me, and all my days been 
Crowned with Peace." 



CHAPTER XIV. 



RECREATION. 



rr^HE seasons sped their annual rounds, — 
JL Summer succeeding winter, and winter 
Summer. Sarah Horton, after an 
Absence of years, was spending her few 
Vacation-weeks with Uncle Nathan 
And Aunt Fannie. Glencora Mayo, 
Too, had been invited, but gently 
Declined, feeling that duty compelled 
Her to remain at the seminary. 
As some of the pupils were obliged 
To pass the short reprieve from study 
In the quiet old town, and still more 
Quiet institute. 

Sarah was greeted by her cousin 
Charles in his usual friendly 
Manner ; and yet there was an added 
Something, that gave him a new interest 
In her eyes. • 

The second morn after her arrival. 
While busily engaged with Aunt Fan, 
Her cousin came in, inquiring " if 
Slie would not enjoy a visit to 
The Old Hermit of the Mountain. 
There is a party going from here ; 
Will start in just an hour. And, mother. 
Please to see we have a lunch prepared." 



68 CONSOLATION. 

At the hour appointed, the pleasure- 
Seekers all faced the mountain. 
Durino; the drive, Charles Stevens oft 
Questioned his cousin respecting Miss 
Houston. With manner unconcerned. 
She told him of her friend's past life ; 
Of her morbid feeling in respect 
To love, and the reason thereof. 
" I know," said Sarah, " she cares for you 
As you desire ; but, feehng as she 
Does, it was her own wild caprice that 
Caused her mother's death, she deems the vow 
Then made — henceforth to have with love no 
More to do — still binding: and so, though 
Lovinoj you with affection strono; and 
Pure, she will herself deny, without 
Confiding the same to you, or even 
Hintino; of her heart's fond devotion ; 
Fearing, as well she may, that your 
Solicitations, combined with the pleadings 
Of her own woman's heart, would break down 
The v/all of reserve behind which she 
Stands intrenched. 
If," added Sarah, " I did not deem 
Her Quixotic, and suffering from 
Her own resolve, I'd not have told you. 
Cousin mine. 

Of course you've heard the adage old, 
' Faint heart ne'er won fair lady ; ' which same 
I advise you to remember, you 
Dear, good, bashful coz ! " 

Anon the party, leaving their horses 
Some rods below, were toiling up 



EE GEE ATI ON. 69 

The shelving rocks to tlie Hermit's Cave, 
Which they soon reached ; finding that, early 
As they had started, two separate 
Parties had them preceded. 

It was, in truth, a primitive style 
Of living, though not quite a hermit's 
Life, judging from the names recorded 
In the " suest-book " lying there. 
Our party, standing and sitting about 
In various groups as best their fancy 
Suited, were soon joined by two young men, 
And seeming strangers to all there present. 
Approaching Sarah and her cousin, 
The taller of the two, lifting his 
Hat, bowed ld\v, begging to know if he 
Had not the honor of addressing 
Miss Horton, the sometime ardent friend 
Of Miss Cornie Houston. 
"I see my face you do not recognize : 
And 'tis not strange, as you had but a 
Passing glimpse, when your thoughts were all 
Engrossed in parting from your friend : so 
I must be my own re-mtroduaer. 
I am Mr. Golding, your friend's former 
Escort ; and this gentleman is Mr. 
Hubbard, — Miss Houston's cousin, and my 
Dear college-chum." 

Mutual greetings being exchanged, 
The four, thus brought in contact, were soon 
Engaged in lively and earnest talk. 
Many questions fell from Sarah's lips 
Respecting her friend, which both young mer 
Seemed eager to answer ; while Charles, witl: 



70 CONSOLATION. 

Love-quickened sense, caught every word 

While talkino; with seemino; interest 

With the friend or cousin, as the case 

Might be. Harry Golding seemed most persistent 

In his endeavors to please Miss Sarah ; 

So much so, that the lookers-on 

Began to make comments at his expense. 

During the hours of rambling, and 
Afterward the dinner-picnic, shared 
By all, the two strangers were introduced 
To the rest of the party from N. 
Miss Julia Alden declared at once, 
She should set her cap for Mr. Hubbard, 
For two reasons : viz., because he was 
The cousin of that darling Miss Houston ; • 
And he also seemed in her eyes much 
The nicer of the two. She did not 
Favor tall men : they were apt to be . 
Conceited. 

Doll Hubbard, who, notwithstanding Miss 
Julia's assertion, was as conceited 
As the generality of men, soon saw 
His name was written down among the 
List in Miss Alden's good o-i'^'ices : and, 
To assure her of her good taste, he 
Certainly exerted himself to please 
The wilful lady ; and, as ofttimes 
It proves, in pleasing her he found he 
Yet more pleased himself. 

The leno-thenino; shadows of the bright 
Afternoon sun warned the picnickers 
That it was time to leave the mountain 
Wilds, as they had yet a long ride before 



EECEEATION. 71 

Them. By invitation of Charlie 
Stevens, the two young men, so lately 
Strangers, were induced to make a 
Visit to N., and stop, meanwhile, at 
Uncle Nathan's. 

While they were waiting for the teams, 
Hal Golding said to Sarah, '^ You will 
Please ride with me, and Doll with your 
Cousin." — " Ah, indeed ! it is immaterial 
To me." Which answer caused Mr. 
Golding to gnaw his nether lip in 
A fashion quite his own. 

He thought, " Where is the girl's mind ? I don't 
Believe she even knows if I am 
Dark or fair, old or young. I'm not used 
To such cool treatment from ladies ; and 
I'll teach her the lesson not to treat 
Me with such cool indifference ! " 



CHAPTER XV. 

VISIONS. 

THE two weeks following were rife with each 
Pleasure the country could afford. 
Picnics of every description, long 
Boat-rides on the beautiful Connecticut, 
Re-unions at different homes, pleasant 
Walks and talks, no more to be indulged : 
For soon the happy company of 
Friends would be scattered, to meet no more ; 
Or, if they met some day in the future, 
They would not be the same as then. 
New scenes, new ties, the world's hard buffets. 
Would change produce ; and though glad to meet. 
And often longing for another grasp 
Of the old friend's hand, yet when clasped, and 
Eyes gazed once again in those so dearly 
Loved, a change is there. What is it ? 
We see it, we feel it, although their 
Words and acts may be as kind as in 
The past. 

No more the tender eyes beam the same ; 
No more the smiling lips sing the sweet refrain 

They sang bright years agone. 
There is a something lost, we scarce know what : 
When friends long parted meet again, they've not 

The freshness of their morn. 
Ah, Change ! twin-sister of old Time art thou. 
We must yield thee homage, unto thee bow. 



VISIONS. 73 

Laying life's sweet hopes down. 
In vain we'd hold thee back ; thou wilt not stay : 
Joys our hearts find most complete soon fade away, 

And for our past weave a crown. 

One more 
Day of pleasure yet remained ; and it 
Was finally decided in the glen 
To have a rural picnic. Sarah 
And her cousin were hostess and host, 
All needful preparations making. 
No shadow marred the beauty of the 
Sky, and no cloud hovered o'er 
The pleasure-seekers, on this last gala- 
Day, save sometimes the thought of coming 
Separation. Harry Golding proved 
Sarah's shadow, much to her annoyance. 
Him she avoided much as Avas 
Consistent with her character of 
Hostess, not wishing to pain him by 
A refusal of the honor he 
Designed for iier ; for, woman-like. 
She read his heart's true wish. 
Fate and Harry Golding willed otherwise. 

Somewhat apart from the others she 
Sat, wearied with her unusual efforts 
To entertain so many guests ; 
When Golding, seeing her thus alone. 
And somewhat sad, approached, and at her 
Feet himself he threw with happy smile. 
" At last," he said, '* I see you as I 
Wish, — alone. 

To-morrow, as you know, our pleasant 
Party of five-weeks' duration must 
7 



74 CONSOLATION". 

Separate, and all these happy hours 

Be numbered with the past. 

I came here seeking pleasure, and the boon 

Has been granted me beyond my hopes ; 

Although my heart I can but question 

How much has your dear presence enhanced 

My pleasure. From our first brief meeting 

At the station, my thoughts to you have 

Oft reverted. Miss Cornie, who has 

Your picture, oft laughed at me because 

I asked so many, and, to her seeming, 

Useless questions respecting you ; 

Oft with this assertion ending, 

' That girl shall be my wife, if she will 

Me accept.' 

From Cornie I have learned of your early 

Trials, of your lonely life, bereft 

Of home and parents as you are, and 

Yet surrounded by friends kind and true. 

" With my hand, which I now offer you. 
Wealth and high position you'll receive. 
No more this hand " — pressing the one he 
Plad in his ardor taken — " shall toil 
To gain such pittance small. Instead, 
A lady you shall be, and loving 
Mistress of my heart." 

" Am I really less a lady 
That I now earn my daily bread ? 
No, Harry Golding : your wife I'll never 
Be. The life of toil you've pictured forth 
Better far suits me than the idle 
One you'd woo me to. 
We all from the Creator's hand first 



VISIONS. 75 

Fare alike. The accidents of wealth 

And distinction in my eyes are nought. 

Forgive me if I press too sorely 

On your pride by pointing you to the 

Many paths open to you and honor. 

Go, toil and win your way amid the 

ToiHng great ones of the day. Set high 

Your mark, and guard with jealous care. 

What ! you, a man, strong and young, with wealth 

At your command, would idly fritter 

The God-given years in senseless rounds 

Of pleasure ? O Harry Golding ! I 

Do beseech of you to pause ere yet 

Too late. Remember, this life's brief span 

Is soon run out : and much it does 

Behoove each one of us to fill our 

Record-book with deeds of virtue ; 

For, when comes the reckoning-day, what 

Then will matter the fashion of our 

Garments here ? That will not be recorded ; 

But the good deeds done, the one soul saved, 

Some heavy yoke lightened, — these will upon 

The Book of Life be written with our 

Names. Oh ! is it not worth striving for, 

Toiling for, and, if need be, dying for ? " 

Sarah's face, beautiful with the soul's 
Reflections, was raised in earnestness 
To her companion's gaze ; and he, more than 
Ever infatuated with her, because 
Of her reticence and coolness to 
Himself, determined to make yet one 
More appeal for her love. 

" If," said he, " I prove to you and others 



76 COXSOLATIOX. 

I am with the tide a co-worker, 
And bind upon my brow tlie laurel- 
Wreath of fame, then may I not be 
Rewarded with your love, to me the 
Highest honor that I crave ? " 

" Do not ask it," she replied with voice 
Low^ and sad. " We ne'er should be congenial. 
No true soul-sympathy exists 
Between we two. And forgive me, but 
I think much of your present sorrow 
Lies in your thwarted wish. To will is, 
Vv^ith you, to have ; but it may not always 
So remain. 'Tis for yourself, without « 
Regard to me, I'd have you change. 
You'll find 'twill bring you sw^eet content 
If you wnll yourself ofttimes deny. 
And thereby upon some other less 
Favored one a cheering hope bestow. 

" You w411 some day thank me," she resumed, 
" That I can better understand your 
Needs than does yourself ; and this is but 
A passing shadow athwart your life. 
Accept my earnest friendship, and be 
Assured your future path will a recipient 
Be of my. friendly hopes and earnest 
Pravers." 



CHAPTER XYI. 



REWAHDED. 



BY earnest request of his late guests, 
Charles was to accompany them, first 
On a trip to the White Mountains ; then 
To Saratoga and Lake George ; later. 
To their home in the West. 

Doll Hubbard was in the highest spirits ; 
For he would have the bright, piquant Miss 
Julia for his own some day in the 
Future. They both were young as yet, and 
Her parents would not listen to her 
Marriage for some years at least. 

Sarah and Golding parted as friends 
Ordinarily part, with pleasant 
Wishes for each other, and full-spoken 
Words of remembrance. " Give me some 
Souvenir of these pleasant hours ! " he 
Cried, when standing in the hall but a 
Moment preceding his farewell. 

" And shall you them forget ? 
Howe'er, I give you this ; and let 
It ring in your heart its paeans sweet. 
May it be your honored mistress, the 
Companion of every secret thought. 
The idol of your manhood strong, the 
Recompenser of your age ! — Excelsior ! " 
r* 



78 CONSOLATION. 

At last they were gone ; and the old home 
Of Nathan Stevens seeme'd so quiet 
And forsaken, our friend felt almost 
Glad when the hour of her departure 
Arrived. Ere she returned to H., she 
Was to pay her grandpa a few days' 
Visit ; for much she wished, yet dreaded, 
To see her mother's grave. That act of 
Love and duty accomplished, she returned 
Again to Madam R.'s, where she was 
Joyfully received by teachers and 
Pupils, but by none so truly and 
Fondly welcomed as by Glencora, 
Who had suffered from her friend's absence 
IMore perhaps than she would to herself 
Have owned. The same old routine was 
Renewed, and Sarah felt herself at home. 
Sometimes a smile of conscious pleasure 
Her lips would cross, in memory of 
Harry Golding's blank dismay^ when he 
Realized that she, even she, the 
Poor orphan-girl, with no inheritance 
Save her brains, had dared to refuse his 
Proffered hand, preferring her life of 
Toil to the drudgery of his love. 
Of Glencora she a confidante made. 
Who much approved her choice. Together 
They would talk and plan of coming years, 
When they, with more experience, should 
Themselves be founders of a school that 
Must always for its motto bear 
" Excelsior ! " 



KEWAr.DED. 79 

Occasionally Sarah from her cousin 
Heard ; and in the last he wrote, 
" Next week, cousin mine, we are en route 
For Rock Island ; and soon I shall clasp 
In mine the hand of the dearest and 
Most lovable of created beings. 
Wish me joy ; wish me success ! Did I 
Not know how much your sympathies 
With me were cast, I'd not thus freely 
Speak : and, when I my fate shall learn, 
I'll let you know ; for from what yourself 
Has said, and what from her friends I glean, 
I shall not take her former ' No ' as 
Final answer." 

A few weeks later, and Cornie Houston 
Penned the following letter to her 
Friend : " My darling friend, and sometime cousin. 
Yourself prepare for a missive long, 
And perhaps wearisome ; and yet I 
Can but feel your sympathetic heart 
Will truly rejoice that at last I 
Saw the foolishness of my vow, 
And so abjured it. 

As you may guess, I was surprised and 
Glad when once again I looked upon 
My dear beloved's face. Mine I know 
W^as of a scarlet flame, when, bending 
Low, he said, ' Dear Cornie ! was I wrong 
To come ? ' — ' Not wrong, but right,' I answered 
Back ; and then the joyful pressure of 
His hands set all my pulses throbbing. 
Two blissful hours we passed in happy 
Interchano-e of thought. To him I then 



80 CONSOLATION. 

Confessed my youthful folly and its 
Sad consequence, causing me to make 
That bitter vow, which, made, I felt in 
Honor bound to keep, till o'er-persuaded 
By reason and his love. He argued. 
That, in addition to the past error, 
I was, in refusing him when loving 
Him, doing a far greater wrong than 
E'er before ; for were not two lives 
Blighted instead of one ? 

" I had, by my hours of anguish, 
Expiated the result of that mad freak, 
And now surely had earned the boon of 
Love. 

" I had so thirsted for a sight of 
His dear face, I could not struggle long 
Against the pleading voice and my own 
Fond heart. But, when he pressed for an 
Early marriage, I could not yield assent. 
' Not yet, oh ! not yet ; give me time,' I 
Urged. ' We can wait : we're not old or 
Gray.' — 'But why ? ' said he. ' Life at the longest 
Is but short ; and I have lived so alone. 
It seems I cannot you resign, when 
At last you own your heart is mine. 
My darling ! let me claim you this fall : 
Let me not return alone to pass 
In exile another dreary winter.' 

*' His entreaties I firmly resisted ; 
Finally promising, that when the 
Next September sun should tint with warm 
Radiance fair scenes of Titian hue. 
Then would I become his bride. With kiss 



REWAEDED. 81 

Like morning dew, we the compact sealed ; 
And tJien, ourselves bethinking that there 
Were others than we two upon the 
Sphere terrestrial, we joined our friends. 
To me, dear Sarah, it was indeed 
The happiest evening of my life. 
Song after song we sang, while o'er the 
Keys my fingers ran with gleeful touch. 

" ' There is a song just out,' friend Harry 
Golding said, ' which I incline to think 
AH our hearts w^ill suit just now.' 

" As we that happy evening closed with 
That sweet song, so I w^ill my letter end 
By giving you the same, hoping you 
May some day not far distant apply 
It for yourself : — 

"Ever on my lips, like unbreathed prayer. 
Thy name is wafted on the balmy air : 
There is no time or spot, afar or near. 
But tliou art remembered with smile or tear 

*' At the morning's dawn, and at the even-tide, 
My soul is walking ever by thy side : 
My yearning heart cries out to thee in vain, 
Breathing but tender prayers born of pain. 

" The past has garnered such memories kind. 
And close about my heart an altar twined : 
The present, too, has mingled joy and pain. 
The future unkind words shall never stain. 

" When, that hour comes which to all will not fail, 
When my soul goes forth with the boatman pale. 



82 CONSOLATION. 

When Death's cold icy hand shall chill my brow, 
My prayer then shall be the same as now. 

" First and last, dearest and best, 
Thy name shall with me float to dreamless rest : 
E'en in the grave, with that I'm not alone ; 
For me 'tis heaven, rest, and home. 

" Ever your " Cornie." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

AT LAST. 

ANOTHER year, freighted with mortality's 
Joys and sorrows, had circled on her 
Way since last we looked on Sarah, who 
Now, in company with Glencora, 
Was passing vacation-weeks at Uncle 
Nat's. Within the year her grandpa had 
Passed on, and the dear old home to the 
Hand of strangers had fallen ; for his 
Two maiden sisters lono; aoi;o had 
Returned to Mother Earth their tribute. 
With happy zeal did Sarah's fingers 
Deftly fashion the pretty garments 
Destined for herself and her friend, who 
No aptitude possessed for tiny 
Items of a lady's stylish dress. 

And why was Sarah thus anxious for 
The adornment of her friend and self? 
Simply in honor of her cousin's 
Alliance with her almost worshipped 
Friend, dear Cornie Houston. 
She, and her later chum Miss Mayo, 
Were bidden to the wedding, but could 
Not well accept, and com|)romised the 
Warm entreaties of their friends with the 
Assurance of meeting the bridal 



84 COXSOLATIOISr. 

Party at Saratoga when they 

Should there arrive. Much need had Sarah 

For her haste, as time was passing on ; 

And, in a letter late received, she 

Learned that the tourists, per New York, 

Would reach " Fashion's Babel " the coming 

Week. 

So in and out among the fabrics 
Fine her needle flew, until at last 
All was complete, and nicely packed in 
Trunks fitted with compartments neat. 
It was a blissful treat to the two 
Weary girls for a time to leave all 
Care behind, and revel in Nature's 
Panorama, so pleasing to the eye. 

The bright September day to its close 
AVas drawing, when the two girls, somewhat 
Weary with their long and dusty ride. 
First pressed the platform of the depot 
Small and old. No friendly face was there 
To give them welcome, save the hackmen. 
Who with their usual gusto bawled out, 
*' A carriage, marm? " " Congress Hall ? " " Union? " 
'' Clarendon ? " " Columbian ? " '' Pavilion ? " " New 

York?" 
" Carriage to the American House " was 
Indeed an announcement pleasing to 
The bewildered girls, as 'twas there Sarah 
Had been directed by her cousin to 
Go, and there their pleasant rooms had for 
Weeks been engaged. 
The bridal party had not arrived : 
So from their room they did not venture. 



AT LAST. 85 

Save to partake of their simple tea. 

Ere yet the rosy beams of old Sol 
Threw his brightning rays across the 
Slumbrous town, the country-bred girls 
Were out drinking iil the morning air, 
Permeated with the attributes of 
The many springs, the waters of which 
They did not at first over-fancy. 
Returning from their long and appetizing 
Walk, joyfully were they surprised to 
Find their party already domiciled. 

With eager joy, Sarah rushed up the 
Stairs leading to her cousin's parlor. 
More quietly, Glencora followed. 
" O my darling Cornie Houston ! " cried 
Sarah ; " do I indeed behold your 
Dear, sweet face ? " kissing lips, cheek, and brow 
Ere her friend could respond save by her 
Kisses fond. Charles, approaching, ^aid, " I 
See, ' mad-cap ' cousin mine, I must your 
Memory refresh, and to you 
Introduce my wife^ and your cousin, 
Mrs. Charles Stevens." 

" What a jealous bundle of masculinity 
He's got to be ! now, hasn't he, my 
Darling one ? Oh ! pray forgive me for 
My remissness in introducing 
To your kind regard my cherished 
Glencora Mayo." Saying which, she 
Turned toward her friend, who, reclining 
In the large rocker, seemed Parian 
Marble, so white and still was she. 
To their inquiries kind, and efforts 



86 CONSOLATION. 

For relief, she begged them no alarm 
To feel, since 'twas nothing but a pain 
In her heart, from which she had of late 
Felt more free until that morn ; and, as 
Quiet would soonest her restore, by 
Their leave she would retire, and join them 
Later in the day. 

Sarah, who accompanied her to 
Their room, was startled by the thrilling 
Pathos of her voice, as the words, half 
Breathed, fell from her lips, " J've seen him, — liim^ 
Gordon! Did you not see that man, tall 
And dark, yet, oh ! so beautiful, pass 
Down the hall as we entered ? " 

" Indeed, no : I no one saw but you ; 
And think you must have been mistaken. 
One's fancy, you know, sometimes strange freaks 
Will play. Some one, perchance, there was, who 
Much resembles this friend so cherished : 
It could not well be him, you know." 

The gong was sounded ; and Sarah, by 
Entreaty of Glencora, left her alone, 
While she with her friends proceeded to 
The ample dining-room. Cornie's 
Sister and husband. General Davidson, 
Escorted the newly-married pair ; 
And Sarah, by her cousin, was then 
Presented to the Reverend Mr. 
Gordon, and by whose side she sat in 
Bewildered thought. " Glencora was right. 
After all," she mused : " but how came he 
Here ? and how so intimate as he 
Seems with Cornie and her friends ? '' So much 



AT LAST 87 

She speculated with regard to 

Him, her appetite, wliich she had thought 

So keen, seemed to utterly have fled. 

Soon as by courtesy allowed, she 
Her cousin questioned respecting the 
" Divine," and learned that he, being an 
Old college-chum of Davidson, v/as 
By the latter invited to unite 
The newly-wedded ones, and afterwards 
To join their party in a pleasure- 
Trip. " The poor man," continued Cornie, 
" Has seen ' piles of trouble ; ' and, though so 
Youthful in his looks, is now^ a 
Widower, with two young lads, his sons. 

" Dear Sarah, I am so happy ! " whispered. 
The blushing bride ; " and I wish others 
To be as blest ; though not many can 
Be quite as much so as myself," 
Glancing toward her husband with love- 
Freighted eyes : " and so I have been 
Thinking how nice 'twould be if you would 
Only show your better self to this 
Good yet sorrowful man. In his 
Early youth he was most shamefully 
Used by one who him professed to love, 
Yet who tivice his confidence betrayed. 
Exiled from his former home, he most 
Hastily united with one who 
Proved indeed a fitting wife and friend. 
But whom it was not his fortune long 
To possess. Death, the all-conquering. 
Bore her to the land of shadows : 
There his twin-children have also gone. 



88 CONSOLATION. 

His property he lost by fire not 
Long ago. His healtli is also broken. 
Ah ! why is it some must bear a yoke 
So heavy, and others one of flowers ? 
Pity," added Cornie, " they say, is 
Akin to love : if so, I'm sure you 
Him will love, since pity him you must.'" 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

FATE. 



"HTT surely is Fate," mused Sarah, as 

1 She her way wended to the room where 
She by Glencora's request left her, 
And whom she now found enjoying a 
Restful sleep. Quietly she darkened 
The room, and, herself by the window 
Sitting, mused of Life's strange crossings, which 
Surely was not all chance ; else why were 
These two, so long and strangely divided, 
Brought in contact without foreknowledge 
Of the other ? And, as Fate seemed most 
Earnestly inclined to solve the riddle 
Of their past, no human hand should 
Interfere ; at least, not her's. Anon 
There came on the door a gentle rap ; 
And Cornie, radiant with happiness, 
Upon the threshold stood, and, with voice 
Attuned to the quiet room, questioned 
Sarah of her friend. Learning of her 
Sleep, she begged her cousin to prepare for 
A drive to the " Spouting Spring," called one 
Of Nature's curiosities ; said to have 
Been discovered by prophecy of 
A dream, or spirit-warning. " We shall 



8* 



90 CONSOLATION. 

With us take a lunch," contmued Cornie, 
'• As we may be away some hours." 

Leaving for the sleeper a note 
Explanatory of her absence, she 
Speedily joined the party below, 
And anon was, with the rest, 
Complaining of the dust, and the land 
So dry and barren. Somewhat amused 
Was Sarah at Cornie's finesse in 
Brinmno; between her clerical friend 
And herself a pleasant intercliange 
Of thought, combined with friendly acts of 
Courtesy; which Gordon, being a 
Gentleman in all his ways, was not 
Slow to offer, and which Miss Sarah 
Accepted in the same kind spirit. 

Having lunched, and tested the flavor 
Of the " Sulphur" as well as the " Spouting " 
Spring, our party to the " Glass Factory " 
Journeyed. A pleasant hour was consumed 
In watching the operators at their 
Labor, and in gathering trophies 
Of their visit, a less fortunate 
One some day to regale with said 
Exhibitions. Deciding at last nothing 
Else was worth their notice, they homeward 
Tarned. On Circular Street they paused by 
Gordon's request ; and there he left them. 
His footsteps turning toward the Park, 
The others passing on to the '' Empire " 
And "High-Rock" Springs; then home, per Broadway, 
North. 



FATE. 91 

Glencora from her lonoj-refresliiiicr 
Sleep arose. Soon Miss Sarah's note 
Caught her eye. '' Ah ! so they've gone," said she. 
'' I'm truly glad ; for now I can a 
Few more hours of quiet have in which 
My heart to fortify against tlie 
Shock this morn received at sio-ht of that 
Once-famihar form so like to him : 
And yet himself it could not be ; for 
He is far from here, and married too. 
O heart ! poor foolish thing, to flutter 
Thus in memory of one who has 
Ere this forgotten thee ! " Soliloquizing 
Thus, Glencora herself arrayed in 
A black grenadine, with wheat-ears 
Sprinkled o'er it ; corsage low, and her round 
White arms Meamincr throuo;h the texture thin 

o o o 

Like things of wax. Amid her tresses 

Loosely flowing she twined a spray of 

Natural flowers. Thus simply yet. 

Tastefully adorned, she slowly and lone 

Down Broadway passed, uncertain where her steps 

Would lead ; until, feeling the need of 

The cool, refreshing water, the Park 

She entered, and liberally she quafled 

From the '' Columbian." Upon the 

Upper walk of " Congress Park" she sat, 

Deadened to every outward scene, but 

Keenly alive to Memory's touch. 

Sitting thus, with eyes upon the earth 

Intent, and soul-visions of the past 

Absorbing all her mind, she noticed 

Not the manly step so near, pausing 



92 CONSOLATION. 

At last in front of her, while a ne'er-to- 
Be-forgotten voice questioned thus ; — 
" Do I indeed behold her who once 
Bore the name Glencora Mayo ? or 
Is this of the brain some fancy ? Yes, 
You are, you must be, Glencora ! 
Oh ! what strange fate brings you here, to mock 
Me once again with the witchery 
Of your love, so sweet, and yet so fickle ? 
Methought my heart had learned its lesson 
Of forgetfulness ; when, lo ! one glimpse 
Of your dear face divests it of its 
BouD-hten robe, leavino; it bare and stricken. 
Glencora ! O Glencora Mayo ! 
Would that I had ne'er beheld you, lovely 
As you are ! for you have blighted the 
Freshness of my youth, tarnished my dreams 
Of power, and despoiled my future : 
And yet — oh, madness of despair ! — I 
Love you ; ay, adore you ! " 

With changing cheek Glencora listened 
To his words ; and, though his tones of love 
Thrilled all her heart, she thought of his wife, 
Whom his present words to her thus had 
Outraged. With tear-filled eyes she turned to 
Him, saying, " I o)ice thought Solon Gordon 
The prince of honor. I now see my 
Mistake ; since no true man would venture 
Thus to speak. It matters not what our 
Relations in the past have been : the 
Present should be remembered, and ^oiir tuife.'' 



FATE. 93 

" My wife is now an angel there," said 
Gordon, turning his eyes so sorrowful 
Toward heaven. " I have no wife, no 
Home, no friend I almost said : but that 
I have no right to say, since Jesus 
Bears for me my crown ; which I shall 
Some day wear, if I do but faithful keep." 

" Formve me ! " and Glencora's hand once 

o 

More upon that strong arm rested. " Sit 
By me," — moving along, — " and tell me 
Of your past since last we met ; then, if 
You wish, the favor I'll return." 

Hours passed on ; and they two, by Fate 
Separated, and by the same power 
Re-united, still talked of past, present, 
And i'uture. 

Returning from their drive, Sarah hastened 
Glencora to find ; and whom, not 
Findinoj, she searched for far and near. 
At last, some premonition warned her 
That all was well with her, and not to 
More disturbance make. Alone she 
Sauntered toward the Park, which almost 
Seemed deserted in the hush of coming 
Twilight. At last, sitting upon a 
Double seat, Sarah saw her friend ; and. 
As she had divined, her companion 
Was the restless Gordon. 
They, so engrossed by each other, did 
Not hear the intruding step drawing 
Near and nearer, until at last she 
Could but hear the sweet words of her friend, 
Who, with head upon his shoulder resting. 



94 CONSOLATIOK 

His arm about her thrown, thus breathed of 
Her soul's sweet content : * — 

" The hght is fading down the sky ; 
The shadows grow and multiply ; 
I hear the birdies' evening; son^ : 
But I have borne with toil and wron^ 
So long! — so long ! 
Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown : 
So, darling ! kiss my eyelids down. 

" My life's brief spring went wasted by ; 
My summer's ended fruitlessly ; 

I learned to hunger, strive, and wait : 
I found you, love, — • oh hapj^y fate ! 
So late ! — so late ! 
Now all my fields are turning brown : 
So, darling ! kiss my eyelids down. 

" Oh blessed hour ! oh perfect rest ! 
Thus pillowed on your faithful breast ; 
Nor hfe nor death is wholly drear, 
O tender heart ! since you are here, 
So dear ! — so dear ! 
Sweet love ! my soul's sufficient crown ; 
Now, darling ! kiss my eyelids down." 



CHAPTER XIX. 



STELLA GRAHAM. 



THE day following the one of so 
Many happy incidents, a ride 
To the lake was proposed ; and to which 
All most happily concurred, save one, — 
Miss Sarah, who declared she could not 
Go, as she had home-letters that must 
Be written : besides, if she went, an 
Odd number would be formed, which she quite 
Solemnly averred would be fatal 
To their pleasure. They finally were 
Persuaded, and left her to her own 
Devices. Her letters being done, . 
She started on an aimless stroll 
About the lovely village. Passing 
Caroline Street, she, from a rustic 
Cottao;e near, heard such heaven-born strains 
Of music as held her an enchanted 
Listener. A sweet girlish voice oft 
Broke forth in song like some bird beating 
Its fettered wings against its prison- 
Cage ; and in those notes was breathed a heart's 
Crushed sorrow. Unconsciously Sarah 
Ao;ainst the fence-railino- leaned, drinkinc^ 
In with eager ear the notes of harmony. 
Some little time she thus stood, unheeding 
The passers-by, who rudely jostled ; 



96 ' CONSOLATION. 

Feeling but one wish just then ; viz., 

To know who had invoked such music 

Almost divine. Anon her attitude 

From the house was noticed ; from whence a 

Lady grand and beautiful, although 

Her hair was snowy white, in the open 

Door-way stood, and questioned Sarah 

If she felt ill ; else why did she upon 

Their yard- fence lean ? No queen could be more 

Fair, no voice more pleasing to the ear, 

Than was this dear old lady's, whose eyes 

Were yet as blue and kind as in her 

Early youth, whose cheek still bore the rose's 

Bloom, and whose mouth itself was sweetness. 

So thouo-ht our heroine as she looked on 

Her ; and born in a moment was the 

Wish to know and have her for a friend. 

Sarah most truly felt alone since 

Glencora had returned to him so long 

Beloved. She knew for her friend she felt 

Rejoiced ; and yet a pang 'twould bring 

Despite of all to see how quickly 

Cornie and Glencora both had her 

Forsaken for the love of man. She 

The same would do, no doubt, if ever 

She loved ; and more than foolish it seemed 

To give it a passing thought. They all 

Loved her well, and much would laugh at her 

Sad fancies. 

" Will you allow me to come in and 
Rest, dear madam? " questioned Sarah. '' I 
Feel a little weary, and homesick 
Withal." — " Certainly, dear child," the kind 



STELLA GEAHAM. • 97 

Old lady said. " You do look tired and 
White. Let me take your hat and gloves ; and 
Rest you in this chair," — drawing forth a 
Large stuffed rocker, which to her guest's eye 
Seemed most invitinoj. 

The room in which she sat was to her 
Vision like some fairy picture, sweet 
And beautiful. Upon the floor was spread 
A carpet of white ground, with bouquets 
Of lovely flowers sprinkled o'er it. 
A marble-topped table stood in the 
Centre of the floor, upon which was 
A rich vase of Bohemian w^are filled 
With the late autumn flowers. A what-not, 
Laden with many a curious 
And tasteful relic, one corner filled. 
A pretty tete-a-tete was rolled against 
The wall. A parlor-organ and 
Piano also graced opposite 
Sides of the room. Ottomans of rich 
Embroidery mixed among the stately 
Chairs. One of Rubens' paintings hung 
Against the walls, and others of less 
Note. Brackets of every size and shape 
Were scattered here and there, all laden 
With trifling gems of art. Over- 
Head a pretty bird-cage hung, in w^hich 
Dick and Charlie kept house year after 
Year, and, when fancy willed, free concerts gave. 
The long white curtains were of lace, and 
Just revealed the pretty shades beneath. 
Upon a bracket shaped for books, a 
Fine assortment met the eye : all the best 



98 CONSOLATION. 

Literature of the day was gathered 

There. A stand close by was laden 

With fruit of various kind ; but the 

Fairest thing of all was the young girl 

Reclining upon a couch, close drawn 

To the open window. All other 

Items Sarah's eye had taken at 

A glance, save this sweet statue ; for such 

She seemed. Scarce eighteen summers their seal 

Had set ere Death his signal gave, and, 

By his cruel frown, the coming years 

Affrighted. Her brow was broad, full, and 

High, with eyebrows arching over eyes - 

Of darkest hue, yet full and soft as 

Midsummer's dream ; nose slightly aquiline ; 

Pure oval cheeks, compressing a mouth 

Broad and sweet with human richness ; 

Chin perfect in its outline, 

Upon a neck slender, yet graceful, the lovely 

Head was poised, with its wealth of shining 

Hair ; her perfect form was but a child's 

In stature ; her hands, idly resting 

In her lap, were beautiful beyond 

Compare. 

Sarah thought of the " Arabian Nights " 
And its enchanted land ; questioning 
If she, too, were not under magic 
Influence ; fearing almost a movement 
The whole bright picture would dissipate. 

From an inner room close at hand, the 
Kind old lady, we must henceforth know as 
Mrs. Raymond, now drew near, in her 
Hand a tiny waiter bearing, upon 



STELLA GEAHAM. 99 

Which were placed cookies and a glass of 
Home-made wine, of which she pressed her guest 
To partake, and which she did with thanks. 

" Forgive me if over-rude I seem : 
But a woman's curiosity, you 
Know, is proverbial ; and I am not 
From others of my sex exempt. 
As I entered, upon the door-plate 
I saw inscribed a name which I conclude 
Must be yours : therefore, if I mistake 
Not, you are Mrs. Raymond; and yonder 
Is your daughter, the fair musician 
To whose charming powers I am 
Indebted for the treat I, a stranger, 
Am enjoying ? " 

" I see," said Mrs. Raymond ; " you are in 
Truth ' a Yankee,' most excellent at 
Guessino; ; thouo-h some features of the case 
You've not rightfully hit. — 
" Stella, darling, are you rested yet ? 
If so, come sit beside me, while I 
Somewhat of ourselves relate to this 
Pleasant-looking lady, who, my heart 
Tells me, will soon become to us a 
Friend." 

Stella, approaching, bowed with graceful 
Ease ; and on an ottoman at her 
Grandma's knee she sat, her head reclining 
In her lap. " Stella Graham," resumed 
The old lady, " is the only 
Daughter of my only daughter, and 
From early childhood has been bereft 
Of parental care ; though I have e'er 



100 CONSOLATION. 

Striven to make for her the orphan's 

Wants unknown." From those soft blue eyes the 

Tear-drops fell amid the silken tresses 

Of her pet, whom she caressed while talking. 

" She is a slender child," she added : 

" Still, w^hen quite an infant, the strongest 

Love for music she betrayed. 

We are not wealthy, as you see ; and 

Yet we need not to complain ; since we 

Have enough for all our needs. But she, 

My Stella, for years one wish has cherislied, — 

To be a public singer ; and for 

That purpose she has toiled until 

Perfected in the art she's chosen. 

And now, when fame seemed within her grasp, 

Her health has failed ; and, by advice of 

Our physician, we hither came last 

Spring. Strangers in the place, but few there 

Are w^hom w^e call fy^iend, I had hoped much 

From change of climate and the waters 

So medicinal ; but, to my seeming, 

She grows weaker day by day. As you see. 

She is quite weary from just that little 

Song to which you listened. O my darling, 

My beautiful darling ! what have I 

Done that God should so scourge me ? " 

" Hush, dear grandma ! " said Stella, wiping 
From her old friend's face the falling tears. 
'' You know I am quite reconciled at 
Last to the dear Lord's will ; and what does 
It matter, after all, the few more 
Years of life ? Besides, you promised, dear 
Grandmamma, to ever remember 



STELLA GEAHAM. 101 

My favorite Psalm : ' The Lord my shepherd 
Is : I shall not want. He maketh me 
To lie down in green pastures ; he leadeth 
Me beside the still waters ; he restoreth 
My soul ; he leadeth me in the paths 
Of righteousness for his name's sake. 
Yea, though I walk-through the valley of 
The shadow of death, I will fear no 
Evil : for thou art with me ; thy rod 
And thy staff they comfort me. 
Thou preparest a table before 
Me in presence of mine enemies ; 
Thou anointest my head with oil ; 
My cup runneth over. Surely 
Goodness and mercy shall follow me 
All the days of my life, and I will 
Dwell in the house of the Lord forever.' 

" He has stilled my troubled soul with his 
Promises so beautiful and full 
Of hope," -she added, turning to Sarah. 
" My heart was very hard at first. I 
Could not, without many pangs, renounce 
The inborn wish of my heart. Music 
Has been and is the one love of my life : 
E'en paradise will be no haven 
Of bliss, if Music's pasans sound not 
Within the jasper gate. Ah I there must be 
Music there, more grand and holy than 
Mortal ears can e'er divine ! '^ 

Sarah's eyes upon the glowing face 
Of the enraptured girl's were fastened ; 
For never had they seen beauty so 
Sublime. 

9* 



102 CONSOLATION. 

*' Fate once more has proved my friend," she said, 
Arising to depart, " in leading 
Me to you. You will not refuse me 
Welcome if again I trespass ? " she 
Questioned with anxious voice. 
" Indeed, no ! " they both exclaimed : ^' come in* 
Whene'er you wish." With mutual kind 
Wishes, they parted ; Sarah leaving 
Upon a bracket a card-board 
Lettered thus, — " Miss Sarah Horton, 
Warwick, Massachusetts." 



CHAPTER XX. 



CHANGES. 



SARAH became with the passing days 
A regular visitant at the cottage ; 
To the inmates of which she became 
Endeared. With their permission, Cornie 
And Glencora both were frequent guests, 
And, with Sarah, were quite enraptured 
With the lovely Stella and her stately 
Grandame. Their purest hours of pleasure 
Were passed within that cosey home, so 
Pregnant with the peace of holy lives. 
The invalid was oft their companion 
In pleasant walks and drives about the 
Town, though oft the hectic flush burned upon 
Her cheek. By mutual assent, they 
Dear Mrs. Raymond styled " Mamma," 
And to her appealed in all their little 
Trials, as daughters ever do to 
A mother well beloved. 
One morn, the rest of her party 
Having joined an excursion to Glen's 
Falls, Sarah entered the pretty home 
Of her friends, and found them for a walk 
Prepared, and, on inquiry, learned they 
To church were going ; so her they asked 
To join with them in the coming service. 



104 CONSOLATION. 

For the first time, our friend listened to 
The beautiful and soul-inspiring 
Church ritual. Tears filled her eyes, while 
Her very soul seemed like ocean-billows 
Heavino;. What was this stranoje religion, 
So new to her experience, yet so 
Grandly solemn ? She crossed the threshold 
Of Bethesda Church, heedless, truth to 
Say, uncaring for its sacred rites : 
She left it with an arrow in her 
Soul, barbed at every point. Thought 
Was awakened ; and yet no word she 
Breathed to those around, their comments dreading. 

October, with her gorgeous drapery, 
Mantled the Eastern States, warn in o; the 
Pleasure-seekers that Summer's reign was 
Over. The large hotels were closed ; and 
Our bridal-party prepared to bid 
Adieu to Saratoga and her pleasant 
Nooks. On the fourth day of the month, 
Upon the morn of their departure, 
Gordon and his fiancee were most 
Quietly united in wedlock's 
Holy bonds. The rector of the church 
Episcopal the ceremony performed. 
With no witnesses save their own party. 
Including Stella and her grandma. 
By this arrangement, Sarah was left 
Decidedly de trop ; and, having really 
No home-ties to draw her hence, she, by 
Invitation kind of her new-found friends. 
Decided to remain a while with 
Them. By urgent request of Charles Stevens, 



CHANGES. 105 

The tourists, the intervening weeks 
Ere Christmas, would pass at the dear old 
Home in N., where great preparations 
Even then were being made for their 
Reception. 

Now Sarah's life flowed in a different 
Channel from its olden groove. 
Such quiet hours of perfect peace had 
Ne'er before fallen to her^lot. 

She to Stella taught the art of 
Imitating God's handiwork of 
Flowers ; though poor indeed the little 
Worsted imitations looked beside 
His glowing blooms : but time it served to 
While, and brightened many an hour. 
In return, Stella feasted Sarah's 
Soul with music. The old masters seemed 
To breathe again 'neath her touch : those hands 
So white and slender were endowed with 
A glorious gift,' such strains commanding 
As sent sweet thrilhngs hot and fast through 
Sarah's frame. 

From the re-action of such a moment 
One night, Sarah clasped her friend 
Closely to her throbbing, aching heart. 
And exclaimed, " You must not, shall not, die ! 
I will so importune our Lord, he 
Will death's fiat arrest, and you restore 
Once again to health ; or, if some 
Sacrifice is needed, I'll him beseech 
Myself to take in place of you : 
Any thing, rather than your dear form, 
So beautiful and fair, shall fade and 



106 CONSOLATION. 

Mould beneath the coffin-Hd. O God ! 
Hear thou my anguished prayer, and let 
Me die for her ! But few would miss me 
Long ; and no work here that I could do 
Would be so great as my life giving 
Up for hers. Think of her rich gifts by 
Thee bestowed ; of her young heart with 
Devotion filled ; of all her pure, grand 
Thoughts crushed out in silence of the 
Grave ! " 

" Cease, dear friend ! " Stella answered back. 
" Against our Lord you do blaspheme when 
Thus you speak ; for we are his, to do 
With as he wills. My darling, I see 
Your heart is very selfish ; and the 
Creature 'tis you love, and not the Creator. 
Bitter sorrows as your lips have quaffed, 
They yet must drain more bitter still. 
'Tis the fiery furnace alone that 
Cleanses. Now listen. On that day when 
First we met, you said 'twas Fate that brought 
You here ; and, if 'twas Fate, then God is 
Fate, and we are walking as he wills. 
Some purpose of his own, to us unrevealed, 
Has formed this friendship more than dear, and 
On your part a worship wild. Be governed 
By his hand ; your heart submit to his 
Decree : and be assured that whate'er 
Is, is so to be ; and we can nothing 
Change. This poor body, lovely as you 
Deem it, is not yours or mine, but his ; the 
Gifts that he has with me crowned, whene'er 
He wills, must honor his commands. 



CHANGES. 107 

' Up there ' he has for me some work to 

Do, — greater far than my mission here 

Could be. Perhaps 'tis through your very 

Love for me, your heart, so long rebellious, 

Is touched into submission : loving 

Me, you my home will love, and thus your 

Thoughts become familiar with the life beyond." 

" Oh, consolation I — you are indeed 
My consolation ! " the weeping Sarah cried. 

The days and weeks rolled on. ''Mamma" and 
Her friend, with wistful eyes, saw the light 
Slowly fading from their darling's face ; 
And mutely questioned each of each, " How 
Long, how long ? " She did not suffer much ; 
And for that they were thankful : but like 
A lovely flower, yielding, as it 
Faded, its sweetest perfume ; so did 
Stella fill their hearts with the holy 
Richness of her dying hours. Tears seemed 
Out of place in that room of peace. 

The short November day to its close 
Was drawing, when Stella, rousing from 
Her half-conscious state, wished to gaze once 
More from the western window. The clouds 
Seemed all aflame with tints of orange 
And vermilion cast by the setting 
Sun : and, as her dying eyes rested 
Upon the heaven's panorama, a 
Look of glory shone o'er all her face, 
And with clasped hands slie slowly said, 
" And there shall he no more nights 



108 CONSOLATION. 

As the sun's slant rays on the far-off 
Tree-tops hngered, she closed her eyes, 
Murmuring low, " When next he comes, I 
Shall be away. Sarah, hold me in 
Your arms once more ; and, while the 
Twilight shadows creep o'er all the earth. 
Let me thank you for your tender care 
Of me through these long, weary hours : and 
If 'tis possible for spirits of 
Those gone before to earthward come, then 
Will I some day return to you, and 
On your brow my hand will press " (thus 
Laying her waxen hand on Sarah's 
Face) ; " and you will know 'tis me, because 
I'll whisper in your ear, ' Consolation ! ' 

" Grandmamma, dear grandmamma ! " the dying 
Angel said, " weep not for Stella much ; 
And you will not be alone, since our 
God-given friend will still be yours. Death 
Is nothing. Imagine a river 
Two states dividing, called mortal and immortal. 
Upon this river a boat is moored ; 
And those who would or must cross over 
The helmsman hail, called Deathj and he will 
Row us across the heaving tide, safe 
Landing us upon the shore immortal. 
And there, there, is rest. Yes, there, too, is 
Music, heaven-born. I can hear the 
Strains even now ; cannot you ? " turning 
Her death-filmed eyes upon Sarah's face. 
" Strange you cannot hear it too ! It is sweet, — 
Sweeter far than aught of earth. Truly, 



CHANGES. 109 

' To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
The God whom we adore. 
Be glory as it was, is now, 
And shall be evermore.' " 

The beautiful lips were closed, never 

Again to open in this life ; the 

Eyes, eloquent till death, were now sealed 

Forever, their lono; lashes restino; 

Upon a cheek like marble ; about 

The mouth a soft smile lingered, and the 

Waxen hands still clasped as though in prayer. 

" She has reached the shore immortal," 
Sarah whispered to the kneeling woman 
By her side. " Our darling has passed on ; 
And we are left. See ! how happy is 
Her smile ! how beautiful, hoto beautiful. 
She' looks ! — my sweet, my blessed consolation ! '' 

After Stella within the tomb was 
Placed, Mamma Raymond went to C, the 
Coming winter to pass with relatives. 
The pretty cottage was closed ; and to 
The door a placard was attached, 
'^ For sale." 

Sarah to her olden life returned 
Again ; the same, yet not the same. 
Changes had wrought their influence on 
Her heart, in which one idol was 
Enshrined, one memory of a pure 
Friendship, surpassing that of Hymen's 
Yow, — the dream of her woman's heart, when 
Every nerve within her being vibrated 

10 



110 CONSOLATION. 

To the touch of those slender hands so 
Loving in their clasp, and on whose brow 
The sorrowing girl a crown of love 
Had placed ; and 'mid the leaves embalmed 
Were twined the words, " My consolation." 



CHAPTER XXI. 

CONCLUSION. 

VISIT with us once again the pleasant 
Farm-house of Uncle Nathan, whose laugh 
Eesounds as gayly through the house as 
When, a youth, he brought his bright-eyed wife 
To dwell with him years agone. And can 
It be, the social, gentlemanly 
Master of the house is the once- 
Bashful Charles ? Where now has fled his 
Olden disdain for the ladies ? 
Echo answers, " Where ? " And Cornie, fair 
As summer morn, is of her husband's heart 
The queen, as of all the household. A 
Precious hope now thrills her heart with joy 
For the future ; while Charles's step more 
Manly grows while dreaming of the May 
Be. Gordon and his beloved Glencora 
Are in their olden home at W. 
He with lavish hand the manna 
Of life imparting to those who will 
Partake ; enjoying in the sweets of home 
The happiness that ever crowns hopes 
Long deferred, when at last they realize 
Their fruition. 

Visiting in N., Sarah was one evening 
Startled by her cousin's saying, " There 



112 CONSOLATION. 

Is to be, this week, a lecture upon 

' The Times,' from a young man of more than 

Ordinary abiUty : you remember 

Him, cousin, — our old friend, Harry 

Gelding ? " — " Yes, she remembered, and would 

The lecture most certainly attend ; " 

Which proved to be rich with cultured thought. 

A thrill of honest pride through her ran 

As she listened to the warm words of 

Eloquence which from the lips of this 

Dark-browed speaker fell ; thinking, " He once 

Loved me, plain and humble ; and I have 

Been the means of stirring into life 

The electric wells of thought with which 

This man was endowed, but which slumbered 

Beneath the bond of pleasure. One good 

Deed I can to myself accredit." 

As on former days, he was invited 
By her cousin home ; which invitation. 
With a glance at Sarah, he accepted. 
During their walk from the hall, questions 
Were exchanged, and answers given. Just 
As they entered the house, his hand was 
Laid on Sarah's arm with gentle force, 
While with voice suppressed, yet eager, he 
Said, " Here, where the motto was to me 
Given, I the same restore w^ith its 
Added crown ; fondly hoping 
The mistress of my heart that word will 
Supplant with the dearer one of love. 
Which shall it be, dear friend ? " 

'' Harry, excelsior is from me 
A kinder word than love, and you the 
Same must keep. I have for you none other." 



CONCLUSION. 113 

October, soft and solemn in her 
Wearing, again the earth was carpeting 
With a o-arment rare, when Sarah's foot 
Pressed the streets of Saratoga on a 
Pilgrimage of love. Up to the 
Cemetery her steps she wended 
To the spot where she and " Mamma " had 
Cansed to be erected a plain white 
Slab over the dear remains of one 
To them beloved. Anon her hand npon 
The stone was pressed, on which was graven 
An open book, and on its marble 
Page was cot a rose with scattered leaves. 
Above the book a slender hand was 
Poised, with index-finger raised. By the 
Hand a ribbon-scroll was held, bearing 
On one end the name and age ; upon 
The other, the word, " Consolation." 

Next to that grave, Bethesda Church was 
To her heart the dearest spot she knew. 
Many have been her silent vigils 
At either shrine. Long her stubborn heart 
Refused to be comforted, yet e'er 
Beseeching help ; when, like a vision 
Of the morn at day-dawn, her soul caught 
The radiance of our Father's love. 
And was bathed in the light thereof. 
Daily she wandered by the 
To her sacred o-rave, livinof o'er once 
Again that friendship, sudden in its 
Bloom, ardent and changeless to the end. 
Behold her now as the slant ravs of 



114 CONSOLATION. 

The setting sun shine athwart the grave, 
With hands clasped, and eyes upraised to the 
Heaven's blue ether, whither her darling 
Has gone ! She waits for the unseen hand 
Her brow to press, and for her souVs 
Assurance of " consolation." 



